


To The Shore

by Winterotter



Series: Follow Me Down [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Background Pairings, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, OT3, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Sexual Content, but most are probably at least mature, not every chapter is explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterotter/pseuds/Winterotter
Summary: Jack thinks he knows how best to return Charles to power in Nassau, and he has a plan to see it done. And Jack’s plans never, ever, go awry.A foray into a Season 1 AU where Thomas was exiled to Nassau with James & Miranda.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to introduce how Nassau would be different if Thomas was there with James & Miranda via an outside POV. I played with idea of using John Silver, since the show uses him to introduce Nassau to the viewers, but my fondness for Jack and Charles won out instead *shrug*. You can expect them (and Anne) to play a major part in this fic too, since here is where it gets plot-y.
> 
> If you haven’t read part one, all you really need to know is that Thomas convinced his father to banish him with Miranda and James instead of sending him to the psych hospital. 

* * *

“I have a plan,” Jack Rackham announced, pushing his way through the flaps of the tent. Which was annoying because Charles had specifically told his men to leave him the fuck alone that night. Jack’s presence meant that either his men had already forgotten his orders or they had assumed Jack was the exception to the orders. He would have to speak to the men again, ensure they understood that no one, meant no one, not even his quartermaster. 

“Here lies Jack Rackham, the man who never shuts up,” Charles murmured into his bottle of rum, leaning against a post, “A good quartermaster, when his scheming wasn’t almost getting his captain killed.” 

Jack stopped in his tracks, “are you practicing my eulogy? Wait, don’t answer that - I don’t want to know. Like I said, I have a plan.” 

“Do you now.”

“I do,” Jack said, sprawling uninvited on the pile of pillows that served as Charles’ bed, “do you want to hear it?”

“Will my saying no actually stop you from telling me?” 

“Not this time, Chaz. I think I know how to ensure we can sail and chase large prizes again.” 

“You want to help fix things between me and Eleanor? You don’t like her. And where did you get the idea I would want that?” 

“Don’t you? Even if you don’t want back in her bed,” Jack’s mouth twisted in distaste as he spoke. His dislike of Eleanor, of her influence on Charles in truth, was a familiar point of contention between them, “you must admit you want to be favored by her again, to get tip-offs about what ship to take. The men are going stir crazy, we need a good prize to win.” 

Charles tipped back the bottle of rum and finished the last of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he lowered it. He wasn’t surprised when Jack took his silence as agreement. 

“Do you remember our conversation the other day? You know, about her new favorite?” 

Charles looked at him blankly. 

“You don’t remember? Don’t tell me you were that drunk Charles. We were on the ship, talking about Flint?” 

Charles continued to stare and Jack sighed, “you never listen to a word I say, do you?” 

“What about Flint?” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Jack rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed, “about how he’s Guthrie’s new favorite. And - you know - his relationship with the Barlows?”

Charles had a sudden flash of memory, the captain’s cabin aboard the Ranger, about a week ago. Jack blathering on about something that wasn’t any of their business. Anne Bonny his usual shadow, lingering in the background. “Jack,” He said, “if I’m recalling the correct conversation I hope you know I was at least half-serious about your eulogy. I have never been, nor will I ever be, interested in discussing Flint’s romantic choices. I don’t know how it relates to your plan, but I suspect I won’t like it. You should quit while you’re ahead.” 

“You do listen!” 

“That’s what you came away with? Fuck off, Jack, and leave me to my drinking.” 

“You don’t understand, hear me out, will you? Flint is Guthrie’s new prize captain, her highest earner. And thanks to his relationship with the mysterious Barlows we can assume she hasn’t taken him to bed as she did you. I mean come on - he’s old enough to be her father.”

“Arrive at your point. And quickly.” 

“My point is we’ve been approaching this from the angle of reconciling you with Guthrie. I think we should focus on allying ourselves with Flint instead. He’s put it out he’s looking for a consort ship and crew - we could go back to garnering prizes without you having to work your way back into Eleanor’s good opinion. I think that will follow naturally, if you can befriend Captain Flint.” 

“And how do the Barlows factor into your master plan?”

He moved to the makeshift dresser, tugging open the top drawer. Charles moved a thoughtful finger over the line of bottles inside and considered his choices. He stopped on one towards the middle, a dark and spicy rum but one that was watered down. Not good enough for this conversation, he decided. Instead, he chose a bottle tucked to one side, this one was similarly dark but unopened and not watered down. 

A huff came from behind him and he didn’t need to turn to see the disapproval written on Jack’s face. He used his teeth to remove the bottle’s stopper, taking a long swig before turning back to Jack. 

“Must you?” Jack asked, his tone petulant.

“Yes. Now, the Barlows?” 

“I think they’re your in with Flint. I won’t pretend to understand how things work between the three of them. But. Everyone knows that when he’s in Nassau if he’s not on the Walrus or at the beach, you can most often find him at their bookstore.” Jack waved his hand around as he spoke, his fingers twisting in the air, “you have butted heads in the past, I think it’s best to approach him through Mr. and Mrs. Barlow.” 

“What’s there to understand about them?” Charles chose the easiest bit of that to comment on, and if it was also the bit most likely to rile Jack up that was just a bonus, “they’re three mature and consenting adults who have found a measure of happiness together.” 

“Aha, I always knew you were a romantic,” Jack pointed a playful finger at him. 

Charles took another drink of rum, trying not to remember all the times he’d gone off half-cocked in the name of Eleanor Guthrie. Considering that Jack was often the one who picked up the broken pieces of him afterward, he’d earned the right to tease him about it. But there was a limit to what Charles would allow, one Jack usually sensed and stopped shy of. 

“You truly don’t understand how three people could make a partnership between them work?” Charles asked rather than answer the accusation. At least Jack knew better than to call him a romantic around the men. 

Jack flailed, and Charles knew that he had caught onto what he had been alluding to. While only the pairing of Jack and Anne was physically intimate, there was undeniably a partnership between all three of them and between him and Jack separately. He and Anne had respect for each other, and a grudging sort of partnership when it came to Jack’s health. 

“That’s different,” Jack protested. 

“It is, because we all know who you’d choose if it came down to it. I suspect that’s not true of Flint and his Barlows. I suspect they would refuse to choose until the world burned them down or they burned it.” Charles said, his grip on the rum a bit tight. He flexed his fingers until they stopped clenching the neck of the bottle. “There are similarities though, enough that you can’t claim ignorance.” 

It was quiet for a moment, Jack was quiet for the first time since entering the tent. Charles had always known who Jack was ultimately loyal to, and he didn’t resent it, or Anne. Still, he never would have voiced it in normal circumstances. He set the bottle down on a table and moved to sit next to Jack, bumping their shoulders together. Maybe he should lay off the rum.

“Ah,” Jack said, “we seem to have gotten off-topic.” 

“You want me to befriend the Barlows so that they’ll put in a good word for me with Flint,” he summed up Jack’s plan.

Jack was leaning towards him, his eyes lighting up, “Yes, exactly! You can be charming when you want to be. And I suspect we both know the trick to getting into their good graces.” 

“Books,” they said together, Jack with delight and Charles with resignation. It was common knowledge that the Barlow Bookstore was more of a library than anything else. If you wanted to leave with a book you had to buy it, but if you were content to read it at the store you didn’t have to pay a cent. Few took them up on it, reading was not a common hobby among pirates. Most didn’t know how and didn’t care to know. Charles wouldn’t if his mentor hadn’t insisted that a captain needed to be able to read and write a log among other things. 

It was common knowledge that the shop was able to stay open thanks to their partnership with Flint. They’d provided enough capital in the early days, and continued to help pay for repairs when needed, both of which earned them a share of every prize the Walrus took. An odd arrangement, but one that seemed to work for them and the crew. 

“You really think this plan will work? What’s to say Flint won’t see through it and try and kill me for my trouble.” 

“He probably will see through it. But this should benefit all parties. I’m not advising you to lie or manipulate them, Charles, just that you go make some new friends.” 

“Maybe I should be writing my own eulogy,” Charles sighed, “Captain Vane, done in by his own quartermaster’s scheming.”

* * *

“Sweetheart,” James whispered, his arms sliding around sleep-warm skin. He brushed a kiss on a bare shoulder, on the slope where shoulder met neck, on the sharp corner of a jaw, “darling, I’ve got to get up. Hal is waiting for me at the tavern for ship business.” 

“Nnnggghh,” came the protest and James laughed softly, curling around the warm body in front of him. 

“I’d like to stay but I can’t, I won’t be gone long though, a couple of hours at most. I’ll be back to have dinner with you and Miranda and we’ll have the next few days together before the Walrus is due to leave again.” 

There was a soft chuckle from behind him, knees tucking up behind his, a second set of arms snaking around his waist. “Liar,” Miranda whispered into the back of his neck, making him shiver, “it’s never just a couple of hours.” 

“It will be,” James murmured, “you two should decide what you want for dinner. I can bring something from the tavern or I can go to the market and pick up some things, cook when I get back.” It went unsaid that neither Miranda or Thomas should attempt to cook. They’d both learned how after coming to Nassau, but James was the only one who was more than passable at it. The less said about his earlier attempts to teach his lovers to cook, the better. There were permanent scorch marks in their tiny kitchen. 

“I have a better idea,” Thomas said, rolling over in James’ arms to face him. He was the slowest of the three of them to wake and the most reluctant to leave the bed in the mornings. 

“What’s that?” 

It happened so fast James didn’t have time to blink before he was on his back, his arms stretched and held above his head. Thomas was straddling his waist, nuzzling into his throat, his hands wrapped around his wrists. He gasped and Thomas shifted to smother it with a kiss.

“Oh,” Miranda breathed from beside them, “I approve of this idea.” 

“I thought you might,” Thomas broke away with a nip to his bottom lip, twisting to catch Miranda’s lips as she leaned over. 

James took advantage of Thomas’ distraction and pulled his arms loose. He bucked his hips and twisted, toppling Thomas over so he was the one trapped between him and Miranda.

“Well,” Thomas breathed, looking between them, “not what I had in mind but this works just as well.” 

Miranda rolled her eyes and reached over to lace her fingers through James’ loose hair, tugging him over and smiling into his mouth. “Stay with us, lover. You’ve been away too long and we have missed you.” 

“Hal and I do have to speak today,” James said between kisses, a reminder to himself as much as them. 

Miranda didn’t stop kissing him, one of her hands caressing his chest and abdomen, teasing with the idea her hand might travel lower. “Fuck, why do you both have to be so irresistible?” 

“Your own fault for choosing us, loving us,” said Thomas, his lips replacing Miranda’s as she slid down the bed, and wiggled her way between their legs, smirking up at them. His ability to think was obliterated then, his mind lost to the feel of Thomas’ lips against his, to the warm sensation of Miranda’s lips trailing down his ribs, his hips, his thighs. 

Needless to say, he was significantly late to meet with Hal Gates. Thankfully his quartermaster had restrained himself to knowing smirks and one pointed comment. James had borne it with a roll of his eyes, any irritation washed away by the warmth in his chest whenever he thought of his two lovers. They’d been incredibly lucky to end up here together, and he would forever be grateful that Thomas had convinced his father to fake their deaths and let them fade into obscurity under new names. 

Well, Thomas and Miranda had faded into obscurity as the local book shop owners, Mr. and Mrs. Barlow.

James had cast aside his name and taken up a new one, but he had done the opposite of fading away. He hoped Alfred Hamilton and Admiral Hennessy knew who the fearsome and infamous Captain Flint really was. He hoped they feared that knowledge and regretted driving him into the life of piracy. 

“Captain Flint?” He looked up from the inventory list he and Gates were leaning over to see Max approaching them. She was one of the women who worked in the brothel, one of Miranda’s only friends outside the local Puritan community. 

“Yes?” He asked when she hesitated before their table. Her gaze darted over to the bar, where Eleanor Guthrie was holding court with a few of Captain Hornigold’s men. 

Her cheeks were flushed and he restrained a smirk, more apt to recognize that kind of affection than most. He cleared his throat and she focused back on him, and she had the grace to look sheepish about her distraction. 

“Apologies Captain,” she murmured, “I just came from having tea with your Miranda. She asked that I pass on a message to you.” 

“What was it?”

“She wanted me to pass on her apologies to you, and Mr. Gates,” she said, glancing over at Hal who nodded, “for causing you to be behind schedule. She also requested you stop at the market to get food to cook if you can still make it back in time for dinner.” 

James propped his chin on his fist and glanced at Hal, considering. They really should finish planning today, but the sun was already beginning to set. He’d have to leave now to get to the market before it closed. 

As if he had read his mind Hal began gathering up the papers, “you can make it,” he said in a firm tone, “if we end up here an extra day the men won’t complain. And we can’t go anywhere until we decide on a consort.” 

Max smiled, “she hoped you’d say that. Now, if you don’t need anything from me...” she trailed off, her eyes darting towards the bar again. 

This time James didn’t hold back his smirk, waving her over to the bar. She went, her hips swaying as Eleanor looked up and caught sight of her. 

Across from him, Hal was chuckling under his breath, “ah young love. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Captain?” 

He didn’t dignify that with an answer as he gathered his things. He had a market to get to, and a dinner for three to cook. And if he had any luck, they would end the night in bed, as lost in each other as they were this morning. He would press his love into their skin, murmur it against their mouths, and not stop saying it until he was sure they would never doubt it. Life was too short to do anything less.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to just set up the plot a bit, but it got away from me.

* * *

Thomas ran a thoughtful finger across the spines of the books in front of him, picking up the smallest one and moving it to the end of the row. He frowned and studied the result. Not satisfactory, he decided and returned it to its place with the rest of the books whose author’s names started with ‘S’. He’d tried organizing the books by author’s name, by the size of the books, and by the color of their covers - but the end result never seemed quite right. Every few months he found himself re-organizing. Miranda thought he should pick a system and stick with it while James didn’t care as long as their favorite books were always somewhere he could find them.

He thought their opinions on it said a lot about them as people. Miranda was ever practical and would learn to work around whatever system he chose and James was sentimental and only truly cared about being able to easily find the books the three of them had inscribed love notes in.

“Fuck,” came from behind him. “Is everything here in Greek?” Charles Vane said and he dissolved into worse cursing thereafter. Obscenity hadn’t offended Thomas in years - living in Nassau had taught him tolerance for any manner of speaking - but hearing it in his oft deserted bookshop did surprise him.

“That’s the Greek Philosophy section,” he said, turning to face the first patron to visit his shop in weeks. “Can I help you find something?”

“Ah, Yes,” Vane said, his tone softening into something abashed. Perhaps he hadn’t realized Thomas was around to hear him. “My quartermaster seems to think I need to. . . expand my horizons.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “A quartermaster advised a captain as renowned and feared as you to read more? To achieve. . . what exactly? A more learned approach to hunting ships?”

“You know who I am?” Thomas smiled, moving to rescue his cooling tea from the counter and give up his reorganizing in favor of a conversation.

“Of course, Captain Vane. Are you looking for a specific type of book?”

He looked away from Thomas’ gaze, resting one hand on the edge of a shelf and leaning his weight there. Thomas opened his mouth to warn him but before he could get the words out, the wood creaked and gave out underneath Vane.

Thomas closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Vane and the bookshelf toppling to the floor, to the sound of books falling and flopping open. This time the string of obscenities that came from Vane were so foul that Thomas found himself reluctantly impressed.

“Is this why no one comes here?” Vane asked, his syllables gone rough and less enunciated with his anger, “it’s a death trap disguised as a quaint little shop?”

Thomas opened his eyes and had to swallow back hysterical laughter. Vane had staggered back to his feet, his long hair and shoulders covered with dust from the books. His face was twisted into a scowl that would have been intimidating if he weren’t warily eyeing the other bookshelves around him. It was as if he expected one of them to topple over on top of him any moment.

“My apologies,” Thomas offered, hiding his smile behind his teacup, “James built the bookshelves when we first arrived. Some are not as sturdy as others. He’s a much better carpenter these days but he hasn’t had the time to build replacements.”

Vane opened his mouth and then appeared to think better of what he was going to say. Instead, he settled on, “can you recommend a book and point me towards a piece of furniture that won’t collapse beneath me?”

“Of course,” he said, crouching down to rescue one of the books at their feet. He brushed the grit from the floor off the cover, his fingers tracing over the title embossed across the front. He offered the book to Vane, “here I think you may find this one interesting. It’s translated from the original Spanish but the essence of it remains.”

Vane took the book from him and Thomas was heartened to see that his grip on it was gentle. He would wager that Vane hadn’t handled many books in his life, and certainly none he worried about damaging. “Don Quixote?” Vane read aloud.

Thomas smiled and pointed him to one of the armchairs over by the windows, “that’s as good a spot as any, I’ll be around if you need anything or if that book isn’t to your liking.”

He turned his attention to gathering the fallen books, allowing Vane to slip away and retreat to the armchair. It was clear the captain was discomfited to be here, Vane seemed on edge and hesitant to make a wrong step. He did not appear to quite know what to do with himself now that he wasn’t at the beach, on a ship, or in a tavern.

His coming here was a puzzle, and Thomas had never been good at ignoring those. He’d heard of Vane from James, who spoke of him with a grudging kind of respect and a trace of exasperated fondness. Not that James would ever show that fondness to Vane. He wasn’t even sure James was aware that he had a bit of a soft spot for Blackbeard’s heir and his two wily partners, but it was apparent to Thomas that he did. Few other men would get away with challenging James as often as Vane did and with as light a retribution as he usually got off with.

He’d heard less about Vane’s Quartermaster and his woman, he knew their names and knew Rackham talked more than was good for him. It was James’ opinion that Rackham would have been kicked off the island a long time ago if he didn’t have two shadows lurking around him and warning others off. Thomas rather thought he would get on with Rackham, he believed they might be two peas in a pod. He didn’t think he’d have been able to scrape out a place here in Nassau without James and Miranda at his side - nor would he have wanted to. Perhaps that was why James had a soft spot for them, he saw something of himself and Thomas and Miranda in them.

Thomas clambered to his feet, biting back a groan as his knees protested. He ignored it and moved to place the stack of books on a nearby table. If he had any luck, James would have time to either repair the bookshelf or build a replacement before he set sail again. He didn’t have any spare space for them otherwise.

“This isn’t fucking English,” Vane muttered, his voice pitched low enough that Thomas knew he hadn’t been meant to hear it. Vane flipped the page and continued muttering though this time Thomas couldn’t make out the words. After a while, Thomas got bored of straightening up and moved to the small bookshelf kept behind the counter. He crouched down and selected a well-worn copy of Homer’s The Odyssey and moved to stretch out on the couch by the window, the sunlight warming him as he read. Every now and then he glanced at Vane - the furrow of his brow, the clench and unclench of his jaw. Vane continued to mutter under his breath and Thomas could only presume he was reading to himself or continuing his cursing. Vane didn’t seem to be enjoying what should have been a leisurely read, and Thomas had no idea why Vane was forcing himself to do it.

Every few minutes Vane would flip through the pages, too quick to be reading them, and he did it at seemingly random points. Thomas was beginning to think Vane was after something other than the story within the pages of the book in his hand. But Vane seemed determined not to tell Thomas what he was really here for, or even to acknowledge his continued presence though he was only a few feet away. Thomas forced himself to concentrate on his book. It had been a gift from James, a prize taken off one of the first ships he’d hunted as a pirate captain. He’d inscribed a love note, a promise, to always return home on the inside cover. It was a book Thomas often returned to when James was at sea.

“Fuck,” Vane said again and this time he didn’t dissolve into worse cursing, he didn’t clench his jaw or even his fists. Instead, he shut the book and slammed it down on the table beside him. He stood up with enough force that the armchair was pushed back a few inches, the legs screeching against the wood floors. The sudden noise made Thomas wince. Vane was breathing hard. “Fuck this, fuck Jack, and his fucking plan,” he spat, and he had kicked the chair and left out the door before Thomas understood what had happened.

He sat there on the couch - frowning at the abandoned book. A book that was translated from Spanish but filled with English words a pirate captain wasn’t likely to have had cause to learn or to recognize. He forgot sometimes that James was the exception, not the rule. A weight settled on his shoulders and he closed his eyes.

* * *

At the quiet creak of the door opening behind him, Charles straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. He kept his eyes fixed on the bustle of the street in front of him, his thumbs hooked through his gun belt. Barlow’s steps were hesitant and soft enough he’d never be mistaken for a pirate.

“Mr. Barlow, I - I’m sorry,” Charles said, his voice terse and too sharp. He was meant to be charming the bookshop owners, not leading them to think him an illiterate brute. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper,” he said or tried to say. He found the apology was all he could force out from behind clenched teeth, the rest of his explanation dying unsaid in his throat. He turned his head when Barlow pressed something warm against his upper arm. It was a mug filled with a steaming liquid - tea of some kind by the smell.

“Drink,” Barlow said, pressing the mug against his arm with insistence. He fumbled for it, grateful that it was a proper mug and not a dainty teacup like the one he’d seen Barlow with before.

He cradled the mug between his hands, the warmth seeping into his palms. 

“Drink,” Barlow said again, “it’ll help. There’s nothing a spot of tea won’t make better.” He could tell that Barlow wasn’t going to let it go and so he did as he asked, keeping the mug between both hands to hide the tremor. It burned all the way down and he coughed, turning to sputter at Barlow who was grinning at him.

“Did I forget to mention I added a bit of whiskey to it?”

Charles chuckled, feeling some of the tension in his frame trickle away. Maybe he could still salvage this situation, maybe Jack never had to hear the whole story.

“Let’s circle back for a moment,” Barlow said and Charles turned his gaze back to the front, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted something other than his own frustration and shame.

“There’s nothing to forgive on your part and much I should ask forgiveness for,” Barlow continued, and of all the things he’d expected Barlow to say - that had to be the most surprising, the most unexpected.

“I - What’re you apologizing for?” He asked, his voice tight and strained and he hated it.

“I chose the book I did because I thought you’d be entertained by the story,” Barlow said, his tone soft and his eyes mercifully turned away from Charles. “I neglected to consider whether...” he trailed off.

“Whether the words were simple enough that a rotten pirate like me could understand them?” Charles finished for him, hiding his expression behind the mug as he took a long drink. This time he was prepared for the burn of the whiskey.

“I like to think I would have landed on a better way to phrase it,” Barlow said, daring to smile at Charles, “but yes, essentially. I forget sometimes that not everyone has the vocabulary I do.”

Charles took another sip of tea, the warmth of it settling in his stomach, soothing his too fast heartbeat, easing away the urge to hit something. It made breathing easier, as did Barlow’s solid presence at his shoulder.

“When I was young,” Barlow said and now he was leaning against a column, his hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes fixed on the setting sun. “My father had very little time for me. When I was young, I spent much of my time with servants or tutors.” He glanced at Charles, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. An invitation to share his amusement at how far away a world like that must seem from Nassau.

“These tutors - most of them were kind, educated men. But there was one, a man who was like my father in that he was impossible to please. Anyone who failed to meet his expectations was little better than the dirt beneath his heel. I never met his expectations, not that I can remember.”

Barlow pulled out a battered-looking pocket watch, but he didn’t open it. He held it in his palm, his thumb rubbing circles across one side of it. “This one tutor,” he resumed, “had a way of making a simple question a condemnation of my intelligence. Every question was a stupid one and it deserved a reprimand. Not like what you’re thinking,” Barlow said with a glance at him.

“He never laid a hand on me. He found other ways to humiliate me, he would force me to read aloud books and philosophers that were beyond my comprehension. And he would ensure I was so anxious that I could barely see straight let alone read without stuttering or mispronouncing a word. Every mistake I made was further proof of my ineptitude, of how I lacked something fundamental.”

“Fucking Christ,” Charles murmured.

“Quite,” Barlow shrugged, “he almost ruined reading for me. It was years before I picked up a book of my own free will, just because I wanted to. If he’d succeeded, it would have been a tragedy,” he shook his head with a laugh, “I’m not sure either of my lovers would have fallen for me so thoroughly if I didn’t share their passion for the written word.”

Charles tried to find something to say that, tried to figure out if he was expected to say something. He wasn’t particularly good at talking about this kind of thing, not with anyone other than Jack and occasionally Anne. His earlier frustration had faded but his throat was still tight and the tension in his spine had yet to uncoil. It was just that he hadn’t been prepared, he hadn’t tried to read anything other than sea charts and captain’s logs in years. Not since his old Captain Teach had forced him to learn, an order softened by Teach being the one to sit with him evening after evening and help him learn how. He tipped back what was left of his tea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ve only ever told that story to Miranda and James,” Barlow said quietly, “I told you so you would know that if you did desire to improve your reading, I would help without shaming or judging you. But, I rather suspect a desire to read was not what brought you into my shop today.”

Charles ducked his head, looking at the sand as if his mask was hiding there and if he sifted around enough he could find it and put it back on. He was unused to being read this easily, or at all. Barlow was more perceptive than he’d expected. Perhaps, he should have known any partner of Flint’s would be as uncannily able to read him. It wasn’t quite as infuriating coming from Barlow as it was from Flint.

Then, a steadying hand settled on his shoulder, not gripping or squeezing. Just resting there. A still, solid warmth. He didn’t know how long they stood there, both of them watching as the sun slowly set and the street came alive in front of them. Nassau was a bustling place of commerce during the day, and something entirely different once dark set in. The Barlow’s bookshop was located on the edges of the town, closer to the beach than most respectable people wanted to be. But they all knew why, when Flint was away it was common to see one or both Barlows out on their second-floor balcony in the evenings - watching the horizon and waiting for Flint’s return.

“Are you ready to discuss the real reason you came by today?” Barlow asked, his tone neutral. Somehow, Charles had a feeling that any answer he gave would be met with the same polite smile and patience.

“Got more whiskey?”

Barlow laughed and turned to lead the way back inside.

“Yes, I do. You can call me Thomas,” he called over his shoulder, “all my friends do.”

* * *

“We could have had the schedule weeks ago, maybe then the fucking page wouldn’t be missing,” James was sitting at the bar, nursing a pint of ale.

“You may have found the right ship sooner, but catching prizes between hunting it has kept your men sated and happy.”

James arched a brow at her, and she grinned. “Last winter, during that long stretch when you were at sea, I spent some time in the interior with the people there. It’s a nice pious community, but one that faltered and fractured whenever their pastor neglected them. Keep your men happy and their pockets full, my love, happy men don’t mutiny or become disloyal.”

James was peering at her, “you are an endless font of wisdom, aren’t you? Come on, pull up a stool.” Of course, he wouldn’t just pull her down to his lap, not even in Nassau would James be bold enough to do that in public. If they were at home, that compliment would have been followed by kissing her senseless. That wouldn’t be happening here. The first floor of Eleanor Guthrie’s tavern was beginning to fill with men as it grew dark outside, the promise of alcohol and company drawing them like moths to flame. The people here were rough, but honest, and Miranda found herself at home among them.

“Come on, please sit with me for a moment?” James offered her a hand, his smile hidden slightly behind the scruff on his face. She took it and let him help her onto the stool beside him, his hand falling to rest on her knee.

James slid his ale in front of her. She ignored the offer and leaned over to kiss him instead, smiling into his mouth when he jumped slightly. As he began to kiss back with fervor she slipped her hand between the folds of his leather jacket and stole the book he’d tucked away there. He leaned back, raising his eyebrows again, “Christ, Miranda,” he said, “you could have just asked to see it.”

Miranda just smirked at him. “Where would the fun be in that?”

“And everything must be fun,” James said mildly. He watched her as she opened the stolen log, she could feel the weight of his gaze as she flipped through it.

“Have you made progress on finding a consort ship?” She asked after a moment more of skimming the log.

James reached across and rescued his ale, taking a drink before answering her.

“Hal thinks we can convince Hornigold to loan us his crew and ship.”

“You don’t sound pleased with that.”

“Hal seems. . . reluctant to captain it,” James said with a shrug, “he agreed initially but something’s got him rethinking the idea.”

“Do you have other options?”

“No one that I trust,” James said, “I’m tempted to try and go without one. If Eleanor can get me the guns I need, we may be able to do this with just the Walrus.”

She closed the captain’s log and slid it across the bar at him, the spine hitting his arm.

“Miranda?” She just looked at him.

The hand on her knee moved to grasp her shoulder, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Miranda said, “just - is there somewhere private we can talk?”

James picked up the log and tucked it away in silence, his brow furrowed. He left her just long enough to whisper with Eleanor’s right hand, Mr. Scott, before returning to offer her his arm. He didn’t look at her as he guided her through the crowded tables and up the stairs to the rooms that were tucked away there.

Once through the door, Miranda slipped away from him, pacing into the room and keeping her back to him. James’ gaze was heavy on her but he didn’t say anything. After a moment she moved to sit at the small table, flattening her hands on the wood surface.

Her hands had grown rough in the last ten years, a product of cleaning and managing her own house and a small garden. Most days, she was proud to see evidence of her hard work but at the moment it was a reminder of all they’d lost. Of how they’d been forced to change. James leaned back against the table, his body angled away from her.

“If you’re angry with me, I’d appreciate you saying so,” he said.

“I’m not,” Miranda said.

“This is the angriest I think I’ve seen you since that day,” he didn’t have to specify what day he was referring to, “why?”

Miranda folded her hands together, tightening her grip until her knuckles were white.

“Do you truly not understand that you’re not alone anymore?”

“Excuse me? No, Miranda, I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I don’t understand why you’re angry with me, why you’re sitting there, refusing to look at me. Most of all, I don’t understand why you’re having to put so much effort into mastering your rage at me.”

Miranda forced her hands to relax, shut her eyes rather than acknowledge how she could not force her gaze to land on him. She swallowed against the bitter acrid taste in her mouth.

“You are not alone anymore,” she said carefully, “you haven’t been for a long time.”

“I don’t- “ James said at last and she opened her eyes.

“You want to sail without a consort, _Christ_ James, really? You just - you sat next to me, as casual as can be - and just announced that you were thinking of not taking a consort with you when you go after the Urca. As if that decision doesn’t affect me or Thomas. Do you think I don’t know that it’s riskier for you to go without a consort? Have you considered what losing you would do to me? To Thomas? You can’t just -“ she rubbed her face, trying to rid herself of her rage.

“I’m sorry, I know this isn’t your fault. We’ve left these decisions to you and Hal in the past because we don’t know enough about pirating or sailing to have informed opinions,” she said, “I understand we have left you alone in this before now. But not this time, not when it comes to your chances of coming back alive.”

James was staring at his boots, his hair falling out of its tie and casting shadows across his face. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful,” he said slowly, “that you’ve finally deigned to weigh in. Let’s just ignore all the times you’ve advised me on how to handle my men, as you did not an hour ago, and pretend I’ve somehow not been considering you and Thomas in every single choice I’ve made.”

“That’s different and you know it,” Miranda said. She took a deep breath and willed her heartbeat to slow, she was startled at the breadth of her anger but aware enough to recognize it was masking a different emotion. “Counseling you on how to manage the crew’s mood is different than counseling you on strategic decisions. I’m just, I’m scared James. This plan of yours is risky and I’m terrified that you’re going to lose your life to it. Can we just - please would you just-“ she rubbed her forehead. Her attempt to master her emotions was not going well.

“Look,” she tried again, “will you please agree to take a consort ship with you? There must be a captain you can trust.”

James was facing her now, his hip resting against the table's edge. “Of course,” he said, “it’s not like this island is full of men who alternately hate or envy me. I’m sure finding a captain I can trust not to stab me in the back will be easy.” He levered himself off the table, striding towards the balcony.

“James,” she called, but the sound of the door slamming behind him cut off anything else she would have said. She shut her eyes. She hated fighting with James, the same as she hated fighting with Thomas. It had been easier between them before when their worst fight had been over which of them was the blanket thief. Their fights back then had been born of small petty things and they’d been short-lived. But that had been before.

Before that night when Alfred Hamilton had turned their world upside down and exiled them to live in a foreign land. Before she had learned exactly what lengths James would go to in an attempt to protect them. She would never forget the paralyzing fear she had felt in the moments after he’d presented his offer to take the blame for the pardons and to disappear from their lives, from life altogether if the implications in his words that night had been true. If Alfred hadn’t turned James’ counteroffer down, if Thomas hadn’t somehow convinced his father to fake all their deaths. . . it didn’t bear thinking about.

James was leaning his back against the railing now, facing in towards her. She rose to her feet and went to join him on the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” she said. James was still.

“Please listen. I’m sorry, I know there aren’t many you can trust here, I don’t mean to sound as if I think finding a solution will be easy. But I worry about you and. . . I would feel better if you found a consort.”

James’ eyes were on the floor. Miranda reached a hand towards him, running her fingers through his hair, stroking his temple, and finally cradling his jaw. They were quiet.

“I’ll find one,” he murmured finally, “I know it’s the best plan. I’m just frustrated over the missing page and I shouldn’t have let my temper make me reckless. I’m sorry too.”

“Thank you,” she leant against him, nudging their faces together.

James eyed her suspiciously, “did you provoke a fight to get me to promise you that?”

“Of course not,” she said, leaning their foreheads together, her hands sliding in between his jacket and his shirt to stroke his chest and back, “I provoked a fight so we could have makeup sex.”

It wasn’t true by any means, but it made James laugh and kiss her, his hands tugging her closer.

“Is that so?” He breathed.

“It is.”

James was pushing her backward now, through the doorway and back into the room. He kicked the door shut behind them. James stripped off his jacket and peeled off his shirt, his hands moving to her clothes next. Miranda reached for him, squeezing the back of his neck until he stopped and looked at her.

“I love you,” she said and James surged forward to kiss her, tumbling them both onto the bed. Miranda gripped the back of James’ head, her fingers clenching in his hair hard enough that he gasped. She kissed his mouth, nipped at his bottom lip. He growled and pushed her skirts up and out of the way, his other hand working on the buttons of her blouse. “We could,” she panted, in between kisses, “take a moment to get undressed properly-“

“We could,” James said into her ear. He hitched their hips together and she gasped, her legs moving to wrap around him and pull him closer. At some point he’d gotten his pants shoved down and out of the way so that all that separated them was her underwear, “but I like you like this. You’re gorgeous like this, debauched and wet for me.” His voice was somewhere south of a growl and she gasped as his hand slid between her legs to move her underwear out of the way.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes, James, please.” She kissed him then, rough and dirty and filled with the kind of passion that could only come from anger, fear, and all-encompassing love.

James pulled back after a moment, his breathing heavy and his eyes dilated with pleasure. “Get in me,” Miranda panted, her hands gripping his hips and urging him to action.

“That’s what you want?”

“Lord above, yes, stop teasing me, James.”

“Usually you like more build-up, are you sure?”

“James. Just do it.”

“Wait,” he said, his hand slid between her legs but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted it rough, wanted to feel every inch of it, she wanted to come away with wounds made from love. She pushed his hand out of the way and gripped his cock, guiding him inside before he could register her interference.

“I told you what I wanted, I swear to God, James, do you not listen to a word I say? Are you incapable of taking instruction on - _Christ_,” she rasped, her voice deserting her as James pulled out, thrust inside her firmly, and she couldn’t breathe from it, her arms were shaking and her grip on James was so tight her fingers ached. Above her, James froze.

“Miranda. Darling. Let’s stop, I’m going to pull out, slowly-“

“Don’t move,” she gasped, her voice so quiet she would have thought James hadn’t heard her if he wasn’t holding himself so still. Her breathing was fast and too light, her muscles trembling. James leaned his forehead against hers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No, it’s - it’s okay. I shouldn’t have pushed, just. . . go slow.”

“Tell me when you’re ready,” James’ arms were shaking from the strain of holding himself up and back. She knew he wouldn’t move an inch despite that, not until she gave him permission.

“Okay,” she murmured, following her words with a shaky nod when he continued to hesitate. James eased out, barely an inch, adjusted his angle and was back. She gasped, from pleasure this time, her head falling back against the headboard. James followed, pressing kisses to her jaw, down her neck, his touch light and gentle. She knew her desire for rough sex on occasion made him uncomfortable, she knew he preferred it like this. Drawn out and achingly tender.

Their first time had been rough and quick by necessity, their fourth time had been when she first requested it be that way again. Not because of circumstance but because she sometimes liked it that way.

She had kissed him, her grip on the back of neck bruising,_ let go, lose control with me_, she had said.

_I can’t_, James had whispered.

_Yes, you can. Let go._

_I can’t, I don’t. . ._

_Trust me. I can take it_.

Afterward, they’d laid in the estate’s guest room, listening to the sound of the rain hitting against the windows. Miranda had looked over at James, spread boneless and naked across the duvet. His face had told another story, his lips set in a hard line, the muscle in his cheek trembling as he hid his unease. His green eyes were as dark as the raging sea and fixed on the ceiling above them. She had known why he wouldn’t look at her, had seen the way he’d flinched when he glanced over and spotted the bruises beginning to form on her arms, her hips, her thighs._ Christ Almighty_, he had said, his voice shaking, _Miranda, I’m so sorry_.

She had just watched him, _don’t apologize_, she had said, _I wanted it. Sometimes, I need that. I need a reminder that my body is my own, that I can choose what happens to it. Even if what I choose is something that leaves bruises_.

James had jerked his head in a nod, finally turning to look at her, _Okay_, he had whispered,_ just, I don’t know how often I can give this to you. I don’t want to hurt you_.

She had closed the distance between them then, folding herself into his arms and tucking her face against his neck. _Oh, my darling James, you didn’t hurt me. Love is not painful_, she had whispered into his skin,_ love is giving and you have given me much tonight_.

Miranda knew better than to ask for it often after that, saving such requests for after they’d had a fight. She tried not to examine the manipulative part of her that knew it was easiest to convince him to let go when she’d provoked him into an argument first.

Here in a guest room at the Guthrie Tavern, almost a decade later, she knew not to push for it this time. She knew to let James turn their coupling gentle. She knew to roll her hips up to meet his, and to run her fingers through his hair, and most of all she knew to kiss him until he forgot the earlier tension and his misplaced guilt. “James, yes, oh God -“ she gasped, “can you - are you-“

“I’m close too,” James said through gritted teeth. He was easing in and out of her, slow and tantalizing and with unerring accuracy - God the sight of him over and around her, his cheeks flushed and his hair falling down to tickle her face. She tried to memorize how he looked, how he felt, how she felt being here with him- 

“Miranda,” James panted, “I need-“ She pulled him close and held him there, her thighs quivering with the strain of holding him in place deep inside her. Miranda dug her fingers deep into his gorgeous hips and she surged up to catch his lips, muffling her cries against him as he began to move again.

“Fuck,” James panted, and he was coming inside her, the muscles in his abdomen contracting under her hands. “Oh, Fucking _Christ_-“ he managed as he shuddered.

“James - you beautiful - God, I’m coming too, I need you to, you to,” her groan as he eased out and slid his hand down to rub her was a thick choke of sound, the lump in her throat and the warmth between her thighs making it impossible for her to get a proper breath. James’ fingers pressed inside and crooked and she was coming. James’ other hand clutched her close, a bit on the rough side, just as she liked it. She spiraled down, shaking in his arms.

He flopped over onto his back, their tight grips on each other easing.

Her eyes had shut at some point, her chest heaving up and down as she fought to calm her breathing, her fingers twitching for something to hold.

“Darling?” said a faint voice from beside her, and just like that, the world roared to life around her again. She opened her eyes, rolling onto her side and then over to sprawl out on-top of James. She could feel the rhythmic trembling of all his muscles beneath her.

James cradled her to him, one hand finding her hair and the other caressing her hip. She curled there, boneless and safe and loved. A fierce wild love beat in her chest and she couldn’t bear not to say it, couldn’t bear the thought of James ever doubting it.

She ghosted fingers over James’ chest, tracing old scars and more recent ones. James’ arm grew heavier and she knew without looking that his eyes were fluttering.

“I love you, and Thomas, more than I can bear sometimes,” she whispered. James' hand on her hip stilled, she rested her chin on his chest and looked at him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just mean. . . the reason I reacted so strongly to your idea of not taking a consort ship. . . I reacted like that because I love you, I need you and I -“

James shifted and settled, his hands tugging and pulling her up to his eye level so that she was looming above him. His hands cradled her face, his thumbs wiping away the tears on her cheeks. “I love you too,” he said, “I would die for you gladly, but more importantly, I would do anything to live for you. I swear to you Miranda I will take every precaution, I will come home to you.”

She turned her face to nudge at his hands, kissing his fingertips. One hand slid to the back of her head, her neck, caressing there and she sighed. James just looked at her and she looked back.

“You scared the hell out of me,” James said.

“I know, I’m sorry I got so angry.” She settled more firmly on top of him, making herself comfortable.

“James? Do you think you’ll be up for another round?”

His laughed reverberated through her, “Yes, later, after we’ve seduced Thomas into joining us.”

Miranda’s eyes slipped closed, her lips curling, “good idea,” she said.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a bit nervous about how this chapter turned out, hopefully it didn’t get tooooo angsty. 
> 
> I’d love to hear any thoughts on it :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to spend a bit more time editing this chapter - but I live in Florida and with Hurricane Dorian barreling this way it seemed prudent to post this before we lose power or internet.

* * *

“In London there was this one minor Lord, his name was Stuart if I recall correctly, and he fancied himself an expert duelist. He frequented Thomas’ salon discussions. He and James did not get along.”

James’ sigh in response was more of a groan, and he rubbed at his mouth in an attempt to hide his grimace. “Miranda,” he said.

“Shush, it’s my turn to tell a story. You had your turn, it’s not my fault you chose to talk about Vasquez and the Urca again.”

“Charles hadn’t heard it before,” Thomas pointed out, catching James’ eye and sharing a grin.

“My turn, my story,” Miranda said, her tone light and airy, “so, Lord Stuart, I can’t for the life of me remember his first name but that’s not important. He’d won a fencing competition at Oxford and was convinced this meant he could take on anyone and win.” 

“Fencing competitions?” Charles said, “you noble folk are odd.”

“Former nobles, if you please,” Thomas said primly, James snorted at that and it set him and Charles off into proper laughter.

“As I was saying,” Miranda spoke over them, “Poor Stuart got it into his head that he should challenge James to a gentlemen’s duel. He said no, of course, but Stuart didn’t give up so easily. Every week, he’d show up to one of our dinner parties and if it was one James was also attending - he’d challenge him after dinner. Eventually, Stuart realized the only way to convince James was to goad him into it.”

“‘Goading him into it’ is putting it mildly,” Thomas said in protest, “He wanted to fight Flint?” Charles asked, he appeared mystified by the thought, “was he somehow less. . . imposing then?”

“He was more respectable but no less impressive,” Miranda assured. She was idly tilting her glass of wine, the little that was left swirling around the bottom. “Stuart was just over-sure of himself.”

“He was delusional,” Thomas cut in, “He was built similar to your Rackham. How he thought he’d have a prayer’s chance against our James. . .”

“Yes, thank you,” Miranda said, “back to my story. He finally provoked James by impugning my honor and insulting Thomas in his hearing. And so he got his duel with a respected Navy Lieutenant.”

“Not that respected as it turned out. . .” James was squinting up at the ceiling.

“Flint kicked his noble ass, as he deserved, then,” Charles said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Miranda said, and James’ grimace reappeared accompanied with a clenched jaw. He made no attempt to hide it this time. “He drew out the duel, made it clear to everyone watching that he was the better swordsman, and then he fumbled at the last moment and lost.”

“Miranda, surely there’s a different story you could-“

“No, I like this one thank you. Back then James was very aware of who he could afford to offend, and who he could not. So I wasn’t surprised when I asked him about it later and he admitted to throwing the duel at the last moment. But one win didn’t satisfy Stuart and he kept challenging James until-“

“Flint lost his temper and beat him to death,” Charles concluded, saluting James with his glass of whiskey.

“I think Vane should tell the story,” Flint said, “I like his version better.”

Miranda reached over to pat James’ hand, “close. James still managed to lose the duel in the end, but he thoroughly humiliated Stuart in front of a large crowd of onlookers. It was hard to watch, if I’m honest. Their skill level was that different. He may have lost the fight, every fight even, but James won the war, so to speak. No one in that crowd ever took Stuart seriously again. In fact, Stuart tried to recoup his losses by challenging Thomas next. . .” she trailed off, snickering at the memory.

“Stuart didn’t know I’d been trained in gentlemen’s fencing since I was as a child,” Thomas picked up the story, “or that James had taken it upon himself to teach me the dirty tricks I hadn’t learned from my instructors.”

“Most of all,” James said, seemingly resigned to the story being told, “Stuart had overlooked that Thomas, unlike myself, ranked higher than him and had no cause to throw the duel.”

Charles was grinning, “you were the one that finally beat him then,” he said, “I was beginning to think this idiot would get to come away having technically won.”

Thomas gave a little bow, “truly, though, it was a team effort. Who do you think gave Stuart the idea that he could recover his reputation by challenging me?”

Miranda smirked at them over the rim of her wine glass.

“We should consider cutting her off,” James leaned over and whispered to him, “she gets more devious with each glass of wine.”

“You love it, we both do. Her choice in stories will only improve from here on out.”

“For you maybe,” James grumbled, “it doesn’t escape me that she chose a story where I lost repeatedly.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “you know that wasn’t the point she was making,” he whispered so that Charles and Miranda wouldn’t overhear. Not that either of them were paying attention, Charles appeared to be telling Miranda about the long scar dancing down his forearm, “she wanted to show Charles that you were cunning enough to make your point, to achieve a different kind of victory than winning a duel, and that your pride hadn’t gotten in the way of that.”

“She’s trying to build a bridge between us and smooth the way for Charles Vane to be my consort, yes I know,” James scrubbed his face, “if you’d pitched the idea to me yesterday I would have laughed. But seeing him here, making an effort. . . perhaps I could trust him with this.”

They both turned their gaze to Charles. His hands were gesturing, the corner of his mouth curled up into a small smile, his normally dark eyes lit up as he told a story to his captive audience. Miranda laughed then, reaching out to run her fingers down the scar in question, “this was your quartermaster’s doing?” she asked.

“Jack is an excellent shot,” Charles said with a rueful shake of his head, “but he’s shit with swords. We, Anne and I, tried to teach him. I came away with this and Jack almost impaled himself. His sword is mostly for show - he does okay with knives though.”

“He’s not Blackbeard,” Thomas murmured, “he may turn to violence as a solution too often, but I think he’s like us and unlike Blackbeard in that he too considers Nassau his home. I think he’d be as protective of it as you are, given half the chance. If he knew he had cause to be.”

James tilted his head to the side, “we know civilization is coming for us, whether it’s tomorrow or five years from now, whether it’s England or Spain. But convincing others to take that threat seriously takes some doing.” 

“I think tomorrow is more likely than five years,” Thomas stuck his hand in his pocket, grasping his pocket watch and pulling it out. He rubbed at the inscription on the side. It was almost worn away to nothing. “Can I assume you heard about the Scarborough and Captain Hume?”

James hummed, his hand came to rest on top of Thomas’, stilling his movements. “Yes, I heard about the attempt to arrest Richard Guthrie and his subsequent disappearance. The rumors say he fled to the Underhill plantation and not to Eleanor.”

“Are you two going to keep gossiping like old women, or do something useful?” Miranda interrupted, reaching for an empty bottle and waving it at them. The remnants of their meal were spread across the small oak table: empty wine and liquor bottles grouped together in a mockery of a centerpiece, a chicken picked near to the bone and bowls of fruit and salad creating a ring spreading outwards from them. It had been a hastily thrown together meal, James and Miranda had come from the tavern with alcohol and a chicken more suited to feeding three. In an attempt to salvage his record as a good host, Thomas had made up the difference with fruit and a salad from their garden.

His efforts would have been for naught - Charles had attempted to escape when he saw Flint - but Miranda had cut him off at the knees with a bright smile and an entreaty for company. He hadn’t been alone in trying to avoid dinner either. James had put up a token protest - one that hadn’t prevented him from lounging at the head of the table for the duration of the meal, his hair loose and his guard down.

Well, his guard as down as it ever was when they had company.

“These bottles have run empty,” Miranda said, pointing the bottle at James, her eyebrow arched. Thomas surveyed them all with concern. They’d been steadily drinking for a few hours now, it must be near midnight. Their volume had grown steadily louder, they’d begun slumping further in their seats, their walls down and their goodwill extended thanks to food and drink. And along with that goodwill, came a certain amount of unfiltered discussion that could easily lead to disaster rather than friendship.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a splendid idea. James, be a dear, and fetch us another bottle of wine,” she said with her most charming smile, “and whatever Charles would like.”

Charles shrugged, “as long as it’s strong I don’t have much preference.”

“Strong is a given,” James snatched the bottle from Miranda before she could drop it, placing it back on the table and out of her reach. He stood up, lacing his hands together and stretching with a sigh that traveled down the line of his body. Thomas’ gaze found and lingered on the way the movement stretched his shirt across his beautifully broad shoulders, the hem riding up and revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his abdomen.

“Is the good stuff still stashed in the shop’s backroom?” James asked, his grin was lazy and amused.

Thomas cleared his throat, ignoring the snickers coming from the peanut gallery, “yes, I’ll uh, show you, shall I?”

* * *

James attempted to find the stash of their best wines and liquors for a while, but their drinking earlier was affecting him more than he had let on upstairs and Thomas’ backroom office was somehow less organized than his bookshop. He leant heavily against the desk wedged in the tiny room. Discretion was the better part of valor, he decided. Thomas was the only one here to witness his weakness. That rankled less than one would probably expect from Captain Flint.

“How do you find anything in here?” he asked, and Thomas hummed in answer. He shuffled over, giving Thomas room to slide by him and rifle through the wardrobe they’d modified to use for storage. He glanced around the cluttered office and wondered how much of their overall savings came from the shop and how much from their shares in the Walrus’ hauls. If you added up the value of all the books in their shop, would it outweigh the gold and coin they’d been saving? To them, he knew many of the books were priceless but most anyone else would disagree. He shifted back to sit on top of the desk, his feet idly swinging as he considered.

“You agree with Miranda, then,” he said.

“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

“About Vane,” he said, “you think he’s a good choice as a consort. You spent the better part of the day with him, right? Miranda seems to be set on convincing us both to work together, and I know what’s driving her towards that goal. It’s your take I’m wondering about. I trust your judge of character, Thomas, what do you think of him?”

“You know what’s driving her, do you?” Thomas glanced over his shoulder with a sly smile, “is that why you two came home disheveled and glowing?”

Thomas was dodging the question, which was curious. “Hey,” he said, his voice lowering, “I’m not asking you to divulge anything he told you. I would never ask you to share something told to you in confidence.”

“I know. But James, a day spent with someone, does not an expert make.“ Thomas turned to face him, his empty hands telling James he’d not had more luck finding wine to please Miranda, “you’ve dealt with him off and on for a decade, I think your experience and opinion of him outweighs mine. And Miranda’s.”

“You seem to find him good company, at least,” James said. And he stood up, walking forward and placing his hands on either side of Thomas, caging him against the wardrobe’s shelves. “That’s good enough for now. You know, I could help you reach some of the bottles hidden away at the top,” he lowered his voice, pressing forward into Thomas, nosing and nuzzling at his cheek.

“I’m taller than you, James. How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to not care that Charles Vane is upstairs wheedling all kinds of stories out of Miranda,” he murmured into Thomas’ ear. “Enough to not care if they notice how long we’ve been gone.” And slowly, because Thomas hadn’t pushed him away but his welcome was something he never took for granted, he moved one hand down to Thomas’ waist. And so he felt the immediate tension that followed, he felt the way Thomas swayed back and away from him until he hit the wardrobe with a thud.

“James, step back,” Thomas said, in a tone that brokered no negotiations, and James did. He backed up a step, hands falling to hang at his sides. The sting he felt was unjustified, he knew. But the alcohol in his system had brought his walls down, heightened his emotions, left him vulnerable. The rejection, however small, cut deeper than it would have otherwise. He didn’t have time to linger on it as Thomas stepped towards him. The next thing he knew, he was being backed into the desk, hands tugging at his hips and thighs until he took the hint and eased up to sit on it.

“Thomas,” James gasped, “I’m getting mixed, ah, messages here-“ the hand on the back of his neck was gentle, tugging him closer. _How much have you had to drink Thomas? _He opened his mouth to ask, but then Thomas’ mouth was on his.

It wasn’t the messy, passionate, alcohol-fueled kiss he was expecting. It wasn’t messy at all. It was. . . careful, almost hesitant. Thomas’ tongue slipped into his mouth. James relaxed his posture and Thomas slotted into place between his knees. He found himself in Thomas’ arms and being kissed so gently his head was spinning. Thomas had been a talented kisser from the beginning, and their years together had only taught them what the other liked. It was this kind of tender kissing that always got to James, it was arousing in so many different ways, and before he knew it his arms were raising to return Thomas’ embrace.

Thomas had moved closer as they were kissing, and James slid a hand around to find the small of his back, and tugged him closer still. “Fuck,” James gasped into the too-quiet office. Thomas tasted too damn good. He tasted like rich wine and fruit and it was intoxicating. Thomas made a small noise in the back of his throat. His hand was still on the back of James’ neck, his thumb stroking there.

“I think,” Thomas murmured, “that Charles could be trusted in the short term if you tell him you’re hunting the Urca. The prize at the end is motivator enough. If you want to trust him in the long term, you would have to tell him the entirety of your plan, our vision for Nassau.”

James nudged their faces together, “tell me that again when I can focus on something more than how gorgeous you are,” he rasped. He was getting hard - here in the bookshop’s backroom with Charles Fucking Vane upstairs making nice with Miranda. What was more, he could feel that Thomas was too. “You and Miranda are trying to kill me today,” he managed to add before Thomas’ mouth was back on his, stealing anything else he would have said. They were making out like teenagers, there didn’t seem to be a goal here other than kissing and pressing against each other, and James didn’t mind that one bit, even relished it. “Christ,” he moaned, and Thomas kissed him hard, his hand moving to tangle his fingers in James’ hair, and James shivered. Both his lovers liked to grasp his hair, but right this moment, he could think of better things for that hand to be doing, and all he would have to do is reach up, clasp it, and guide it where it would better serve both him and -

“Hello?” said a voice from outside the door, and they froze. _Fuck_, James mouthed. He recognized that voice.

“You left the door unlocked so I let myself in,” Jack Rackham said, “apologies for the intrusion. I’m looking for Charles.”

“H-hold on,” Thomas called, “just sorting some things. I’ll be there in a moment.”

James arched an eyebrow at him and left his hands where they were on Thomas’ waist. He stroked circles there, leaning his forehead against Thomas’.

“You forgot to lock up?” He whispered and Thomas rolled his eyes.

“You didn’t let Flint kill Charles,” Rackham spoke again, “did you?”

“Of course not,” Thomas said, wrenching himself out of James’ arms. And wrenching was the word for it as James did not want to let go. “We were just grabbing more wine.” Thomas chose a couple of bottles without looking at the labels and shoved one at James.

“We?”

Thomas chose then to open the door, and James pinched the bridge of his nose as Rackham tumbled through it. The nosey shit must have been pressed against the door listening.

“Ah,” Rackham said as he scrambled to his feet and brushed at his clothes, “Captain Flint. How nice to see you.”

“I’m sure,” James said, letting his voice drop into a growl as he slid off the desk, “Vane is upstairs with Miranda. We’ll take you to him.”

Rackham’s arrival didn’t bring an end to the night, as James had hoped it would once he’d resigned himself to his presence. Instead, his appearance inspired another round of drinking as Vane caught him up on the stories he’d missed out on and then some. Miranda’s stories got funnier and less cunningly chosen as the night went on. Soon she had Rachkam and Vane propping each other up as they laughed. Every now and then, James caught Thomas’ gaze, and they would trade commiserating smiles. At this rate, they wouldn’t get to bed until dawn and by then there would be no hope of resuming what they’d started, or of drawing Miranda into it. After a while, Rackham pushed his glass away, “I’m quite enjoying myself,” he said, “but I came looking for Charles for a reason.”

“What?” Charles asked, and he straightened in his seat, his hands rubbing at his face.

“A most interesting offer fell in my lap today, literally to Anne’s consternation,” Rachkam paused, taking a moment to meet each of their gazes. “It seems one of Noonan’s whores, Max, has a partner who is in possession of the key to hunting a great prize. A prize he claims you’re hunting. Captain Flint.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> p.s. More characters (Anne, Billy, Silver) will make proper appearances in the next couple of chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter took longer than the others to post, but it’s also longer than any others *shrugs* I figure it evens out.

* * *

“Max? She’s claiming to have the missing schedule?” Miranda asked, setting down the bowl of fruit she’d been foraging from. “This has to do with the Urca, doesn’t it,” Vane said, “this is the reason you told that story. You’re hunting it.” 

“The largest Spanish Treasure Ship in the fleet,” James said. His legs were stretched out across Thomas’ lap, and he was cradling a half-full glass of wine to his chest. “Of course I’m hunting it, that amount of gold would change everything for Nassau.”

“And you lost the schedule you need to hunt it?” Rackham asked, leaning closer, his fingers twitching where they rested on the table. 

“It was stolen from me. By Max’s partner it seems - and ‘need’ is overstating it. I know the waters and the routes the Spanish tend to take, having the schedule increases the odds of success but I intend to hunt the Urca without it if necessary.” Next to him, Thomas was rolling his eyes but his hands were gentle as they rubbed up and down James’ calves. Miranda balled up the nearest napkin and threw it at James. He dodged with a glare.

“Yes, because you are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” she said, “if it was possible to will the Urca into being in front of you, you would have done it by now.”

“‘Stubborn’ is one word for it,” Vane said taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.

“My preference is to have the schedule,” James protested, “but I’m not going to let this go if I don’t. It’s too important.”

“Yes, speaking of. What if I, and by extension Charles, work out a deal with Max and her mysterious partner,” Rackham said, “you’ve put time and effort into this but we can bring the recovered schedule to the table. You’re looking for a consort: is there a better one to have in a fight than the Ranger and Captain Vane?”

“That’s not a decision I would make alone,” James said after a moment of silence, his eyes falling pointedly on Miranda and Thomas, “lucky for you, they seem to like you and I’m open to the idea.”

Rackham shifted in his seat, his eyes gleaming. He stilled when Vane rested a hand on his shoulder, setting down the bottle of whiskey to meet James stare for stare. “You said the gold would change Nassau, not that it would change your crew’s lives. That doesn’t sound like the normal split of shares. What do you plan to do with all that Spanish gold?”

James stretched his arm out to set his cup back on the table but otherwise didn’t move from his relaxed slouch. He hadn’t even told the full truth of his plan to Hal yet, only Thomas and Miranda knew. He’d hinted to Eleanor but hadn’t told her enough to make her a party to it. She would lose her standing with the other crews if they knew she’d supported a captain who intended to keep back a portion of the shares that should rightfully go to his crew. It wouldn’t matter what his reason was, the few who could understand his reasoning wouldn’t forgive the duplicitous of the action. But if Thomas was right, Charles Vane may understand his motivations, may even support it if he could convince him it would be for the good of Nassau.

“I intend to set aside a portion of the gold, partially from our share,” he waved his hand to include Miranda and Thomas, “and partially from the crew’s share, to be used for all of Nassau’s benefit.”

“Are you insane?” Rackham breathed, “even if your crew will look the other way, and I’m not sure they would, ours wouldn’t. They’d skin us alive if a portion that should be theirs was withheld.”

James acknowledged that with a nod, it was well known that Captain Vane’s crew was the most vicious on the island, their fear of Vane only kept them marginally under control. James knew better than most how easily that could change. He kept his distance from his own crew, he let Hal handle choosing and managing the men for the most part. Still, a few bad apples had ended up on his ship. As much as it had galled him to stretch out the search for the schedule, he knew that keeping his crew’s pockets full had quelled the rumble of mutiny that had begun a few years back.

Most of his crew didn’t care that he kept his distance, that his lovers were bookshop owners, that he could be cold and ruthless to his enemies as well as to his crew. But some did. Some were just waiting for the opportunity to oust him.

“How,” Vane said, “how would the gold be used for Nassau?”

“My plan is to fix up the island,” James said, “because I think we can all agree, we’re vulnerable as is. The fort won’t hold up to a serious bombardment and it would take less than a day for England or Spain to take the beach and sweep inland with ground forces.”

“England or Spain?” Vane repeated, lifting his brows.

“They seem like distant threats now, but they are not. Should either of them decide that they want these islands back - they would throw their full weight behind the venture and we would be lost in a blink of the eye.”

Rackham stared at him but Vane had his head tilted to the side. He was considering it.

“I used to think the inevitable course of events would be them driving us into the interior, forcing us into landlocked guerrilla warfare we would have no hope of winning long term. I spent years planning for that eventuality. This gold gives us another option. My plan is to fortify the fort, invest in better guns, and to fashion some type of defense down on the beaches. Some of the gold would be set aside, an emergency fund if you will, in case something we couldn’t predict were to happen. We could train the crews to fight as a fleet, to defend their home. An island of pirates and thieves that would cost more than its worth for England or Spain to regain.”

“Well, you don’t do anything by halves,” Vane said.

“Look,” James said, slipping his legs from Thomas’ lap, leaning forward and thumping his fist on the table emphatically, “you know as well as I do that civilization will reach our shores at some point. And we could run from it, we could move to other free ports, follow Blackbeard and his ilk and live on our ships with no safe place to reliably return to. Or we could make a stand here, we could fight for our home.”

“I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be that simple,” Vane observed.

“It sure as fuck would not be,” Rackham said, his tone sharp and anxious.

“The execution will be the furthest thing from simple, but the decision is that simple. Begone and live or stay and die.” James said, lowering his voice, “I have more care to stay than will to go, let me be put to death before I live without freedom. What say you?”

Vane was propping his chin on his raised fist, studying him. “Poetic. I always thought you were arrogant,” he remarked, “all along I thought you were too smug by half, but at least you were a good pirate. A good captain who kept his men’s pockets full. Now, I find you’re delusional as well as arrogant.”

“Aren’t all pirates delusional to some degree, Vane? Would a sane man do what we do? England isn’t invincible, it _would_ be a hard fight, but I think the freedom on the other side would be worth it.”

“Freedom, is it? You think we don’t have that now?” Vane said, his tone edging into something derisive.

Miranda stood up, “I think I have something stashed away we could have as dessert. Help me fetch it, please Thomas?”

James didn’t look away from Vane’s steely gaze as Miranda and Thomas slipped away to the kitchen.

“Ah, perhaps I should go see if they need my assistance,” Rackham started to stand but Vane gripped his shoulder and kept him seated, “sit, Jack. You got us into this fucking position,” Vane growled.

“We have a taste of freedom here,” James said, rescuing his abandoned wine and taking a long drink from it. “But is it true freedom when we have it by virtue of being ignored by civilization? What happens when they inevitably turn their gaze back to us? Believe me when I say they will. There have been plans to do it before. Now that the war that was distracting them is over, they will return their attention to the New World.”

“How can you be so certain?” Rackham asked, his voice going high in a way that had James and Vane wincing. It was a sign they should probably stop drinking but James couldn’t imagine getting through this conversation without the help of wine. “You speak like you have firsthand knowledge of England and Spain’s plans.”

James considered the two men seated across from him. It was common knowledge he’d been in the navy before this. That wasn’t rare among pirates. But few had guessed how highly ranked he’d been. Fewer would venture to presume that he’d been as close to England’s seat of power as he had been.

“I have no knowledge beyond educated assumptions. Of their current plans, that is. But I know what England’s plan to do it ten years ago was,” he said after a moment. It went against his every instinct to lay all his cards on the table like this, but his gut told him it was the only way to convince Vane and Rackham that the threat was real. That didn’t make him like it. “I helped craft their original plan to retake the West Indies in its entirety. Trust me when I say we won’t stand a chance should they bring that plan, or one like it, to bear.”

“You did what?” Rackham whispered, his face draining of color. “I had wondered if you were an officer, you stand like one,” Vane mused, “and it’s an open secret that the Barlows are some kind of disgraced nobility. The question is, is this plan why you three ended up here?”

“After a fashion,” James shrugged, “all that matters is that the threat is real and we’re ill-prepared to face it.”

Vane nodded, “why not tell your crew your plan? Convince them to freely give up a portion of their share.”

“They’re far too shortsighted to see the merit in that,” James said, forcing down a laugh, “you know that as well as I do. They’d rather throw it away on liquor and whores.”

Vane snorted, “I can’t argue that.”

“Are you actually considering this?” Rackham asked, “if the men ever found out we’d all be killed or worse.”

“Relax, Jackie,” Vane murmured, a hand moving to grip the back of Rackham’s neck and giving him a little shake. “I have conditions,” he said to James.

“Name them.”

“Do as you like with your crew’s portion of the gold, but mine will get their full share. I won’t breathe a word of what you’re doing. I’ll provide the recovered schedule and I’ll donate a portion of my share to your plan for the island, as can Jack and Anne if they decide to support your venture. But I won’t steal from my crew.”

James nodded, “that’s fair,” he said and offered his hand to Vane to shake on it.

Rackham sagged in his seat, scrubbing at his face with both hands, “thank Christ. Anne is never going to believe me when I tell her about this.”

“I’m planning to tell my crew about the hunt for the Urca tomorrow,” James said, ignoring Rackham’s continued muttering, “and then we’re going to careen the Walrus. You should consider doing the same. We’ll need every bit of speed we can muster.”

“Even with the combined strength of our ships, we may not be a match for the Urca.”

“That’s why Eleanor agreed to acquire ten-pound guns for us. With those, we can do it.”

“That easy?” Charles raised his brows again.

James shrugged, “likely not. But Eleanor was confident she could provide them. I’m taking her word for it.”

“Good enough for me,” Vane said, looking around the room as if he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. “Fuck,” he continued, “we’re really doing this aren’t we?”

James sighed and reached for the last bottle of wine standing. He poured himself and Vane a healthy portion, sliding Vane’s across the table. Vane was just sitting there. “Fuck,” he ran a hand over his face, “are we actually becoming partners?”

James snorted and nudged the drink closer until Vane grudgingly took it and drank, “it appears we are, Charles.”

He smirked when Charles choked on the wine.

“Hey, where’s mine?” Jack asked and that set both him and Charles off into laughter that shook the table.

* * *

“It sounds like it’s going well,” Miranda whispered. They’d made it to the kitchen, but hadn’t mounted a search for dessert yet.

“Yes, our James can be very convincing when he puts his mind to it,” Thomas agreed, tugging her into his arms and further into the kitchen. She was torn between continuing to eavesdrop - _what deal would they make with Max and her mysterious partner? Would they careen their ships on the same beach or separately? How would they keep their crews from telling all and sundry about the gold they were chasing?_ \- and kissing Thomas back, because he was clearly still worked up from whatever he and James had gotten up to when they disappeared earlier. His mouth was hot and desperate on hers, his hands roaming up and down her back. It was clear his plan was for them to do this right here in their kitchen and Miranda worked a hand between them to undo his belt, wondering if he’d been simmering in his desire the entire night, if she would find the evidence under her hand.

Miranda gripped Thomas’ jaw and angled his beautiful face to better kiss him and he let her do it, he was letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace. She rewarded him with a hard kiss and stepped back and to the side, drawing him with her and stopping when she backed into the counter. She guided his hands to her waist and he complied and lifted her to sit on the counter, her legs winding around his hips and dragging him against her. If he could get his cock free, if they could get enough of their clothes out of the way, they could get off right here, right now, in record time. If -

“Mr. and Mrs. Barlow?” Jack was walking down the hall, would be within sight of the kitchen in five more steps by her reckoning, “did you find dessert? Can I hide with you? I think Flint and Charles have gone mad given their braying laughter.”

_Christ Almighty_, Thomas mouthed and Miranda bent to rest her forehead against his. He was leaning into her, trying to wrest his control back. Miranda stroked his back and kissed his brow.

Jack’s steps were getting closer and Thomas moved away, fixing his belt and offering her a hand down.

“Barlows?”

“Jack,” Thomas called, and Miranda went to him, straightening his shirt and brushing her fingers through his hair. “we’re in here.”

Jack’s head poked around the corner and he grinned at them, “finally! Sane company.”

She covered a laugh with her hand, unaccustomed to being accused of sanity. Thomas raised a sardonic brow but moved to rifle through their pantry, “what dessert did you have in mind, my love?”

“I think there’s some chocolate from last Christmas hidden in there,” Miranda said, leaning over his shoulder to point to a tin canister on the top shelf, “I thought we could melt it and have hot chocolate as a nightcap.”

Behind her, Jack laughed, “I’m not sure it would qualify as a nightcap any longer.”

Sure enough, a glance out the window revealed that the moon was low in the sky: it was only a few hours until sunrise.

“Nevertheless, it’s a good way to celebrate our two captains coming together. And then we should all get some sleep, or we’ll be useless tomorrow.” She eyed Jack’s tall frame, “there’s a couch in the bookshop that shouldn’t be too uncomfortable for you and there’s a guest room Charles could take. If you two decide to spend the night rather than return to your tents on the beach.”

Jack nodded, “I appreciate that, I’ll discuss it with Charles.” He opened his mouth to say more but cut it off at a loud burst of laughter from the other room. Miranda could just make out James’ voice over Charles’ laughter, could hear the mirth in his tone, and she smiled helplessly.

“That,” Jack said, as frantically anxious as he’d been all night. He was hugging his arms to himself, looking over his shoulder. Towards Vane or in search of his woman, Miranda didn’t know. “you have no idea how unnerving that is. Anne would say. . .”

“Anne would say what?” Thomas said as he maneuvered around them both to heat up the stove, “why isn’t she with you, by the way? To hear James tell it, you two are inseparable.”

“She volunteered to watch Max and ensure she didn’t try to take her offer to another captain,” Jack sighed, “I don’t much like having her out of my sight, but Charles needed to know sooner than later.”

He looked over his shoulder again and this time Miranda was sure he was looking to where Anne must usually stand. The forlorn look on his face when he found her missing tugged at her heartstrings and she moved to stand next to him and grasp his arm.

“Why don’t we rejoin Charles and James? Thomas will join us once the hot chocolate is ready.”

“Yes, alright,” Jack said, distantly compliant as she maneuvered him out of the kitchen. At the last second, she glanced back and caught Thomas’ gaze, trading a commiserating a look. If you’d told her that morning she would be spending her night herding drunk pirates she would have laughed until she couldn’t breathe. And yet.

“There you are.”

They almost ran into Charles in the hall, or rather, Jack did run into him and Miranda just barely avoided being pulled with him. Charles steadied Jack with an arm around his shoulder.

“You’re such a lightweight,” he said, his voice fond as he tugged Jack upright against him.

Miranda smiled and together they managed to get Jack back to the dining table and deposited into his seat. By that time, Jack had lost the ability to coordinate his gangly limbs and had to be propped up so he wouldn’t face plant onto the table. Charles didn’t seem to mind as he sat beside him and adjusted Jack to lean his weight against him where there would be less risk of him toppling to the floor.

“How sweet,” James observed with no real venom as he tugged her over to sit on his lap. She leant against his chest, tucking her nose behind his ear and nuzzling there. His arms slid around her waist, and just like that, she was relaxed and safe, her eyes fluttering as she sank into his familiar warmth. “I don’t suppose,” she whispered, “there’s any chance of the three of us retiring to bed anytime soon?”

“Sooner than you’d think, Charles has been flagging as well.”

“Who would have guessed we’d be entertaining Charles Vane and Jack Rackham? That you’d be willingly partnering with them?”

“Mm.”

“Please, can we just,” and she lifted her head, her lips nudging at James’ and they were kissing, right there in front of company. “You taste like him,” James whispered before taking her mouth again and she was lost in it. In him, in the feel of his mouth against hers, in the comforting weight of his arms around her. Maybe she could draw him out of the room, maybe they could stealThomas away, maybe the could leave their guests to their own devices and abscond -

“The hot chocolate is ready,” Thomas announced as he backed through the doorway, the tray in his hands and his hip propping the door open. Miranda leaned back, but James didn’t let her go far. His mouth was tucked under her ear now, pressing a soft kiss there, “we’ll all be in bed together soon, I promise,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning down her neck and sending shivers down her spine.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she whispered back, “otherwise I may just take drastic action.”

James chuckled, kissing her temple before letting her up to help Thomas distribute the drinks. Thankfully for their guests’ sake, they were able to retire soon after that and they were finally able to spend time together in bed.

“In the morning,” Miranda whispered into the dark later, her men dozing off on either side of her, “remind me that this is why we don’t have guests over often.”

“Yes dear,” she couldn’t tell which of them said it, or if they both did, but it didn’t matter. She was too tired, her eyes too heavy, the warmth around her too tempting. She eased into a deep sleep, the kind that only came after staying awake far past your normal bedtime.

* * *

Jack’s head rested on the wooden table, his eyes closed. Anne set her sword down on top of it and his eyes flew open. “Fuck,” he said.

“What the hell took so damned long last night?”

“It is. . . hard to explain, my dear, my darling Anne,” his voice was so rough he hardly recognized the sound of it. The hot chocolate must have been spiked as well, the Barlow’s and Flint were lushes, that was the only explanation. No matter what Charles said, Jack could hold his liquor. Sometimes. Anne gripped his hair and tugged his head up to get a look at him, uncaring of his gasp of pain.

“You better try and explain,” she said, “I was up all night waiting on you and watching Max.”

“Alright,” he said, his eyes wide. He held his hands up in surrender until she released his hair and sat down across from him. “Alright, I found Charles at the Barlow bookshop, with them and with Captain Flint. Telling him turned into telling them, and things progressed from there.”

“Progressed how? Stop dancing around the subject, Jack.”

“Now, darling, does dancing around the subject sound like something I would do?”

“Yes, it does,” Charles announced. He strode into the brothel, looking none the worse for wear despite having had quite a bit more to drink than Jack. “You enjoy dragging out your stories too much. It’s liable to get you hit,” he said.

“Speaking of hitting,” Anne said, planting her hands on the table ominously, “you want to get to your point quickly Jack. I’ve been up all night and I’m too tired for this shit.”

“Of course,” Jack said, scrubbing his face as if he could rub away the headache behind his eyes, “long story short: we’re partnering with Flint and his crew to chase a great prize, one that can’t be discussed in a place so public. Charles and Flint worked out the shares last night and we’re to take it to the crew for a vote this afternoon. All we have to do to fully seal the deal is to come to an agreement with Max and secure the schedule for our collective use.”

“Oh, is that all?” Anne asked, kicking her feet up on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “And the hangover? Where does the drinking fit into this tale?”

“Is she always this combative when you spend a night apart?” Charles asked with a smirk as he leaned against the table next to her feet. He squeezed the toe of her boot playfully when she dug it into his side.

“Yes,” Jack propped his chin on his hand, “but you know she’s just growly in general.”

Anne lashed out with her foot, knocking his elbow out from under him and sending him flailing. It was only Charles’ hand grabbing his shirt collar that kept him from hitting the table nose-first. “See,” he crowed, pointing at her, “see what I put up with? Not that I would have it any different, darling.”

She tilted her head, the shadow of her hat hiding her smile.

“Now,” Charles said, “if you two are done, I’d like to meet this Max and her partner. Hear their terms.”

“Ah,” Jack said, exchanging a look with Anne, “the first bit is easy. But we’ve been calling him Max’s mysterious partner for a reason - he’s insisting he remains anonymous.”

Charles scowled, “he must still be a member of Flint’s crew then.”

“That’s my assumption as well.”

“Flint won’t like that.”

“No,” Jack sighed, “no, he very likely will not. Do we have to tell him?”

Charles shrugged, “let’s secure the schedule first, then we’ll see about the thief.”

“It’s going to cost us,” Anne said, standing and picking up her sword, “that schedule won’t come cheap.”

Jack grudgingly rose as well, swaying as the pounding drums in his head increased in volume. He was never drinking with Flint and his Barlows again. Never. No matter how nice they’d been. It didn’t matter that they’d coaxed Charles into relaxing and laughing in a way he hadn’t seen since Eleanor Guthrie broke his heart the first time. The hangover wasn’t worth it. Maybe it was worth it. “Considering the size of the prize that schedule will lead us to, the cost will be inconsequential,” he said.

“Is that you volunteering to pay it?” Charles asked, slapping his shoulder.

“Ow,” Jack muttered, “is it ‘bruise Jack day’ and no one told me?” 

They both ignored him as Anne led the way up the stairs, “she was awake and taking tea with some of the other girls last I checked,” Anne said as she knocked on the second door.

Max opened it quickly, poking her head out to look around. Her eyes grew wide when she spotted him and Charles behind Anne.

“Ladies,” she called over her shoulder, “My apologies. but I have an appointment that I need the room for.”

* * *

“I’m afraid my partner’s demands have changed,” said the whore, Max, from where she was sitting at the small table.

Charles paused in his pacing and waited.

“I beg your pardon?” Jack’s tone was neutral, but the way his hands fidgeted gave away his frustration. “I was led to believe he wanted to get it off his hands and then leave Nassau with his reward.”

Charles resumed pacing, glancing at Jack every few turns. At the hard slant of his mouth, the clench and unclench of his jaw, the squint around his eyes. He was still in pain from the night before and trying his best to hide it. Anne saw it too as she moved to hover behind him, one hand on his shoulder the other on her sword.

“It seems Captain Flint told his crew the truth of the prize they’re chasing this morning,” Max said, her eyes flitting to Vane. He bared his teeth at her and she focused back on Jack, “my partner. . . he has decided he wants to remain with Flint’s crew and get a portion of that prize.”

“Along with what we pay him? No, absolutely not,” Jack declared, his hands flat on the table. “He doesn’t get both. He gets paid and he walks away or he provides the schedule and gets a share the same as any other crew member.”

Max winced, but nodded her acknowledgment, “I would have to discuss it with him, but I believe he’ll choose to remain with the crew and get a cut of the prize that way.”

“He would have to reveal himself,” Charles spoke for the first time since they were ushered into the room, “to us and to Flint. I won’t have an unknown thief on my ship, or on Flint’s. And Flint would have to agree. That is non-negotiable.”

“Surely you can see why he would be reluctant to do such a thing,” Max protested, “both you and Captain Flint have a reputation for being. . .” she trailed off, probably realizing that finishing that statement in present company would be unwise.

“Careful,” Anne warned.

Max swallowed, nodded. “If you can assure me, and him, that he won’t face recompense for his possession of the schedule - I may be able to get him to agree to reveal himself.”

“That will partly be up to him,” Jack leant back in his chair, covering Anne’s hand with his own, “it’s not truly us he need fear. If either crew finds out he’s a thief, he’ll face consequences we couldn’t protect him from - even if we wanted to.”

Max nodded, “is that also true of Flint? That he should fear his crew more than him?”

“Ah,” Jack said, “I can’t presume to speak for Captain Flint.”

“I see, well then, it appears we both need to speak with our partners before this discussion can go any further.” Max stood up, a clear dismissal.

“I can,” Charles moved to block her path to the door, “I can vouch for Flint. He won’t kill the thief and if your partner won’t trust that, he can join my crew instead. We’ll be careening both ships on the beach, if your partner agrees, bring him to us. Anne and Jack will be nearby, they’ll escort you both down.”

“He can still decide to accept payment and leave,” Jack said as he stood and moved to join Charles, “and we’ll pay your finder’s fee whichever way he decides. But he needs to decide by tonight - careening will take a couple of days and then we’ll be setting out.”

Max nodded, “my thanks,” she murmured.

Charles jerked his head in a nod, caught Jack’s eye, and led them out of there. He needed to speak to Flint, his crew, and he needed to see about getting supplies for the Ranger. With Jack and Anne tied up babysitting he’d have to do much of it himself.

“Can we trust her?” He asked once they’d reached the first floor of the brothel.

“I believe we can,” Jack said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “she’s being paid well and she knows the risks of tricking you and Flint.”

“And you?” He turned to Anne, “what do you think?”

“We can trust her to look out for herself.”

“And for Eleanor’s interests, right?”

The pair of them exchanged a look, Jack’s grimace easier to read than Anne’s.

“Did you think I didn’t know who she is? It’s not a secret that Eleanor pays special to prevent others from fucking Max.”

Jack shrugged, “is it relevant? She can provide something we need, something that will secure our partnership with Flint, and possibly if you believe him, a better future for Nassau.”

“No,” Charles sighed, “no it doesn’t matter. You two keep an eye on her, and an eye out for the thief. I’ll speak to Flint.”

Jack snorted, “good luck with that.”

* * *

Careening the two ships on the beach was on-schedule and going well, it was everything else that was refusing to fall neatly into place.

“Think he’ll show?” Thomas asked, passing the plate of grilled pork to James. “If he has any sense of self-preservation he would take his payment and disappear.”

James ate a piece of pork, chewing it slowly. “Don’t underestimate what greed can inspire someone to do,” he said, “if it’s true the schedule fell into his hands rather than him stealing it, the fact that his first thought was to sell it instead of handing it over to his new captain and crew does not inspire confidence.”

“Agreed,” Charles said as he stole a piece of pork and ate it, “can I steal Randall from your ship? My cook’s shit.”

James snorted, knocking Charles’ thieving hands away. “My crew likes him too much, they’d mutiny.”

“Didn’t you get a new cook?” Charles asked, reaching again for more food. This time James threw his hands up and let him swipe it. Thomas looked on, feeling indulgent. The three of them were sheltering from the sun in a tent set up between the Walrus and the Ranger. He’d planned to spend his day organizing his shop again but James had had other ideas.

_Come down to the beach with me. Getting some fresh air would do you good_, he had said, holding Thomas from behind, his chin resting on Thomas’ shoulder. Miranda had brushed past them, piling her hair on top of her head as she got dressed to go have her weekly brunch with some of the local Puritan women in the interior. _Go Thomas_, she had called over her shoulder,_ ensure he and Charles are on their best behavior_.

Now, hours later, he was enjoying the perks of being Captain Flint’s lover and Captain Vane’s friend. He’d gotten to watch James tell his crew about the Urca and seeing the men cheering and chanting ‘Flint’ had struck him silent. The glint in James’ eyes, the power in his voice, the sight of him surrounded by his crew was one Thomas would never forget.

When Charles had shown up not long after the two captains had included him in their discussion about the deal proposed by Max and her mystery partner. Neither captain liked the idea of the thief being around but they’d agreed it was bearable if they knew his face and could keep an eye on him.

Thomas had chimed in to support Charles’ request that James not kill the thief but had otherwise spent his time watching the activity around them.He closed his eyes, breathing deep, the salt air was doing him good. He felt a bit more alive out here, with the breeze winding into the tent, the sun a few steps away, and with James close by. He only wished Miranda were here too.

“We did,” James was saying, his beautiful face creasing into a frown, “but I haven’t met or seen him.”

That had Charles looking thoughtful, “you picked him up on the same ship as the captain’s log, didn’t you? The one the schedule was torn from?”

James didn’t answer, surging to his feet and striding out of the tent, “Mr. Gates!” His voice was pitched to carry across the beach and Hal looked up from a heated discussion with a few of the men. With Jack and Anne stuck in town, Hal had been acting as quartermaster of both crews with the help of their respective bosuns.

He said something to the men around him, waved them off, and trotted over to join them. His face was red from the sun but he appeared cheerful. “Aye, Captain? Something the matter?” He asked when he reached them.

“The new cook,” James said, “when did you last see him?”

Hal frowned, “I don’t rightly know,” he said, “I think I saw him among the crew when you informed them about the prize we’re hunting. But I can’t be sure, why?”

“Did you search him? When you recruited him,” Charles demanded. Thomas sighed and stood, moving to fetch their water pitcher and pour a new glass. He handed it to Hal, who took it by rote and then looked between his water and Thomas like he didn’t know how it got there.

“Drink, Hal,” James sighed, turning on his heel to reclaim his chair, “and sit down. I think we have much to discuss.”

Thomas joined them, leaning sideways in his chair to bump shoulders with James. He didn’t have much experience with pirates, aside from James, but he was quickly realizing that they did a surprising amount of talking. Who knew, maybe it was James’ influence, or maybe the stories of pirates had been overblown and they weren’t brutes who didn’t pause to discuss strategy. He could admit that while his plan for Nassau had been driven partially by naïveté - he’d also been correct that pirates were just men who’d been driven to their lifestyle by society or trauma. So he was feeling optimistic that between them - they could come to an agreement with this Max and her partner and a plan that would see them take the Urca with minimum bloodshed. What could possibly keep them from their goal?

“You think the cook is our thief?” Hal’s voice was at odds with his neutral expression, but then anyone would be nervous when pinned under the combined glares of James and Charles.

“That depends,” James said, “did you, or Billy, search him?”

Hal sighed, scrubbing at his face and beard. “No, I don’t think that we did.”

They digested that in silence. James was rigid and tense beside him and Thomas slid a hand down to rest on his thigh.

“What was his name?” Thomas asked.

“Silver,” Hal said, “the name he gave was John Silver.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events are beginning to move quickly and Silver will officially make an appearance next chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a few chapters longer than I initially thought, the total chapter count has been adjusted to reflect that.

* * *

“Okay,” Thomas said, “okay. Maybe we should review what is acceptable and what is _not_ acceptable to say to Silver and Max when they arrive.” 

Flint rolled his eyes and continued to lean over the table and examine the maps that had replaced the food. “I don’t think that’s entirely necessary,” he said.

“Oh? So you’re not planning on threatening him and intimidating her? I think we both know that’s not true,” Thomas observed, glancing at Charles to include him, “It’s in everyone’s best interest if we can get along. Which is why I think we should discuss our plan now.”

“I, for one, think a little threatening is in order. Thieves like Silver need reminding that there are consequences. How does anyone read this chicken scratch?” Charles waved the captain’s log in the air, “I thought I had bad handwriting but I can’t make heads or tails of this. Can you make sense of it, Thomas?”

Thomas dutifully took the log from him, and frowned down at it. “Is there something else of note in here? Isn’t the stolen schedule what we need?”

“The stolen page is important, but if we can decipher the rest of the log we can make some guesses to check the schedule against when it’s given to us,” Flint said as he rounded the table to look at the maps from another angle. “Insurance, if you will.”

“You think after all this trouble, they’ll give you a fake or doctored page?” Thomas flipped through the log, his eyebrows furrowing, “huh, this is written in a mix of English, Spanish and Portuguese.”

Flint looked up, his teeth bared in a parody of a smile, a shark’s grin, one any sensible person would be wary of. Never one to be sensible, Charles rather thought it suited Flint. He’d met few men as dangerous as Flint. Many of the most dangerous pretended not to be until the last moment, until they could see the whites of your eyes. Flint announced how dangerous he was to all, his predatory nature ensuring most gave him a wide berth from the start. “The good captain probably figured that the chances of his log falling into the hands of someone who could read all three languages were low,” Flint said.

“Well,” Thomas said, “that was foolish of him.”

“Yes, Yes, you’re both very smart and impressive,” Charles said, keeping his tone dry and amused, “can we get back to mapping the most likely routes?”

“Of course we can,” Thomas mumbled and it looked like he’d been successful. Until Thomas frowned and he wasn’t, “wait, no, we didn’t finish discussing what to do about Mr. Silver.”

“Thomas, sweetheart, you’re overthinking this,” Flint entreated, “stop worrying and come here and help me match the landmarks in the log with the ones on the maps.” He extended a hand in invitation to Thomas, who took it and let himself be drawn closer.

“That’s better,” Flint took the log from him and flipped to a certain page, tapping at a section, “read this bit aloud for me, please,” he said, handing it back, “and Charles, make yourself useful and see what became of Mr. Gates. Fetching Billy shouldn’t take this long.”

“I would, but it looks like we have company,” Charles straightened from where he’d been leaning against the tent’s post, looking over Flint’s shoulder, “A hurricane named Eleanor Guthrie is heading our way and she does not appear to be in a good mood.”

“Damn it”, Flint sighed, scrubbing at his face.

Charles agreed with the sentiment, watching Eleanor stomp her way across the sand. He knew the expression on her face, recognized the furrow of her brow, the tic in the corner of her left eye, the way her chin was jutted out and raised in defiance. Something had her worried. She always masked anxiety with frustration.

She stopped in front of the tent, hands on her hips, “well, this is a sight I never thought I’d fucking see. Captains Flint and Vane working together without being cajoled into it like unruly children. No one can decide what’s scarier, you two getting along or you two trying to kill each other when your partnership inevitably runs its course.”

“Hello Eleanor,” Flint turned to face her and leaned back against the table, “it’s nice to see you. We are playing nice, in fact, as there may have been _some_ cajoling.”

Charles snorted, catching Thomas’ eye. He wasn’t the first one to look away and he let the corner of his mouth curl up into a smirk.

“Do you bring news?” Flint asked, “I didn’t expect to hear from you till tomorrow.”

“The guns are yours. Captain Bryson is preparing to offload them as we speak. One of my men, O’Malley, is overseeing it.”

Charles propped his fists on the table and leaned over it, “you convinced Bryson to part with his guns? How’d you manage that? He’s not known for cooperating with pirates more than he has to.”

“Maybe it’s just you he won’t cooperate with,” Flint spoke before she could answer, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The Walrus should be done careening today, and the Ranger by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We’re making good time, but I’d like to set sail sooner than later.”

“You’re not going hunting without me.”

“That would defeat the purpose of having you and your ship as a consort, yes.”

“Smug, condescending fucker.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“See? That is exactly what I mean,” Eleanor said, “that is the type of snarky, alpha posturing bullshit, that has everyone doubting you two can work together. This is going to be a disaster.”

“Eleanor,” Charles said, “please, for all of our sakes, relax. Barlow here is worrying enough for all of us, and you know that neither of us are serious. If we decided to posture, as you put it, we wouldn’t do it with words. We’re both captains who can put their issues aside in favor of larger goals.”

“Two captains who happen to loathe and despise each other,” Eleanor corrected.

“Despise is such a strong word,” Thomas interjected, “and I think they’re both coming around, even if they won’t admit it.”

Charles studiously avoided making eye contact with any of them.

“How did you convince Bryson?” Flint asked after a moment of silence.

“My father, after a lot of arm twisting and a bit of emotional blackmail, negotiated with Bryson. I didn’t rely on him, however, I had a plan in place to guarantee Bryson’s acquiescence. One I did not tell Mr. Scott about, I lied to him. Betrayed his trust.” She was speaking directly to Flint.

Charles stayed silent, even if she were to look to him, he doubted he had a response that wouldn’t make things worse. Thankfully, she wasn’t looking for a response from him, anyone with eyes would recognize that she was hoping for reassurance from Flint. It should have galled him, it probably would have if she were looking to any other man, but Flint was painfully obvious about his devotion to Thomas and Miranda. Maybe that was why Eleanor felt safe looking to him for answers. For judgement.

“Why lie to him?” Thomas asked, shifting close enough to Flint that their shoulders were brushing.

“I didn’t think he would understand. I know he doesn’t understand how important this all is.”

“You can’t expect him to,” Flint murmured, “everyone will think it impossible until it happens. It’s a miracle those of us here understand. And you know what everyone else will say when it does happen?”

Eleanor shook her head, her eyes big and fixated on Flint.

“That it was inevitable,” he said, his voice rasping like the ocean against rocks. Listening to him now, knowing what he knew, Charles could see how Flint had swayed so many into following him. More impressive, was that he explained himself to few and still managed to get the majority to fall into line.

Eleanor smiled then, relief easing the furrows and creases from her face. He leant back against his post and wondered. Were Flint and Eleanor fond of each other because they had similar visions for Nassau? Or did they have similar visions because they were fond of each other? He titled his head to the side, watching the tension fall out of Eleanor’s frame, watching the way Flint smiled at her. Soft, affectionate, almost paternal. He knew the captain could be gentle, had seen him handle his Barlows with infinite tenderness, but seeing it extended to Eleanor was different somehow. He wondered how many could claim to have earned Flint’s affection, platonic or romantic, he’d bet the number was small, he bet he’d met all of them, he’d bet most -

The wind picked up around them, the lanterns hung from the tent in preparation of nightfall swinging and clattering. A creaking noise filled the air, the sharp sound of ropes snapping catching his and Flint’s attention, and the following shouts and screams catching everyone else’s. Charles blinked and Flint was gone, his figure cutting a swath through the sand and towards the ships.

“Captain! Cap’n Flint,” Gates was shouting, “we’re going to lose the main mast.”

“Stay here, Eleanor,” He said as he jogged after Flint, exchanging a worried look with Thomas who was at his shoulder as they caught up. He could hear Eleanor grumbling behind them but she wasn’t following. 

“Hal, Mr. DeGroot, Billy,” Flint said, “how long can you hold it without doing permanent damage?”

“All that’s holding her up is that main mast,” DeGroot said, wiping sweat from his brow, “it’ll snap before long.”

“Captain, it’s Randall pinned,” Billy said, “I’ll go and try and help.”

“Billy, no,” Flint ordered, he grabbed him by the arm before he made it farther than a step and redirected him towards where the crew was scrambling to hold the ropes, “I’ll go, the men need you more. Don’t wait on me, DeGroot, do you understand? Save her mast, that’s an order. Vane, help Gates with the men.”

Charles nodded, but Flint’s gaze looked right through him, he could see the calculations happening behind his green eyes.

“James,” Thomas said as Flint was turning away, “you don’t have to, surely someone else can -“

Flint turned on his heel and towed Thomas to him for a brief, hard kiss. Charles looked away and made it a point to glare at anyone who was watching with too much interest. It lasted maybe thirty seconds and then Flint was sprinting towards the ship.

“He’ll be okay,” he offered to Thomas, his voice lowered so no one else would overhear. He gripped Thomas’ shoulder, towing him with him to where Gates was yelling orders, “Flint’s been around ships his entire life - he’ll know when to cut his losses and take whoever can walk with him. He’ll come back to you, Thomas. He will.”

“He’ll try,” Thomas agreed, his voice quiet and strained with emotion.

* * *

John arrived on the beach and had to resist the urge to kick at the sand when he caught sight of the ships. He’d already been scolded and called childish by Max once today, when he’d heard the terms of the deal she had brokered and balked, he wouldn’t give her another reason to arch an judgmental eyebrow at him. Not if he could help it. Behind him, the others stuttered to a stop. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Rackham breathed, knocking shoulders with him as he strode forward to get a better look at the chaos unfolding in front of them, “why aren’t they letting the Walrus right herself?”

“Someone must be stuck,” Anne murmured.

Rackham took off across the sand at a jog and John found himself scrambling to follow. He would have no chance of getting his share of the gold if the ship was severely damaged or if either of the captains spearheading this venture were injured or killed.

“Charles?” Rackham called, skidding to a stop next to a man with long hair and a feral look to him. His skin was bronzed from time spent in the sun and he was baring enough scars to make anyone think twice before facing him in a fight. John swallowed and moved his attention to the scene in front of him.

The two crews were working together to keep the Walrus upright and the ropes looked ready to go at any moment now.

“What’s happened?” Rackham demanded.

“Some idiot tied the ropes to the wrong tree,” Vane growled, “the cook, Randall, is pinned. Flint is attempting to dig him out.”

“He’s taking too long,” the blond man standing next to Vane whispered. John glanced over to see that he was hugging himself, his face pale and pinched with fear.

Max brushed past John, going to the blond man and wrapping her arm around his waist, “he’ll be fine, Thomas, you’ll see.”

Flint was under the ship then, the ship that looked liable to right herself on top of whoever was left under her belly any moment now. The increasingly shrill shouts from the crew were not inspiring. His quest for gold was about to end before it had even begun. Unless. . .

John glanced around the campsite, looking for something that could be used to dig the trapped man out. His gaze landed on a large knife, the same one Randall had shoved at him this morning before he’d snuck away to visit Max.

He sidled over to it, picking up the knife and considering it. Time was running out and Randall’s only hope may be an amputation. Flint hadn’t given up yet, and John couldn’t predict whether he would in time to save himself. Rackham had been adamant that their venture wouldn’t succeed without Flint, _you may have the schedule to trade and my Captain may be acting as consort, but none of this would work without Captain Flint. He’s been on this quest since the beginning and he’s the driving force behind it, _he had said mere hours earlier. The emphasis he’d put on Flint, the way Bonny had nodded along, had left him no choice but to believe them. If they were right. . .

He had to act then. No one was paying him any attention, or they weren’t until he moved and and set off towards the Walrus. He ignored the calls behind him, focusing on getting to the ship before it fell and killed everyone still beneath it. He tried not to think about what would happen if he didn’t get there in time, if he didn’t get away in time after leaving the blade.

John had reached the shadow from the ship and squinted into the shade. Randall was just visible under the belly of the Walrus, a man on either side of him frantically digging around his legs. John bent over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. It was clear that digging Randall out wasn’t working, his leg pinned too well.

“Who are you,” Flint growled, his eyes on John even as his hands continued to move sand. He didn’t answer, tossing the knife down onto the sand instead. Flint looked at the knife and then back at him. He met his stare.

Flint’s face was impenetrable and blank.After an excruciatingly long moment he jerked his head in a nod and reached for the blade. He was doing what John wanted, that was good. He swallowed, that _was_ good but he had no desire to stick around and watch. His stomach lurched at the thought.

The man on the other side of Randall swore but moved to hold Randall’s shoulders down and John turned on his heel and bolted back to the others.

Only later -weeks later, longer if he was truthful - did he recognize the significance of that moment. His decision to bring the knife, Flint’s grudging decision to follow through on the plan - would set a tone for their uneasy partnership. It had been a rare moment of understanding, one he would look back on and say was one of the few times where their purposes and goals fully aligned. Nothing unheard of if the second person had been anyone but Flint.

It was something he would one day look back on and mark as the beginning of the end of an era.

* * *

Thomas caught sight of James emerging from the shadow of his ship just as the crew let the ropes go. He closed his eyes and sent a grateful prayer to anyone who might be listening. He didn’t pray often, James didn’t at all, and Miranda prayed daily. It was fascinating how their views on religion had shifted after leaving London. 

He’d likely changed the least, his family had been Protestant on the surface but hadn’t practiced many of the beliefs. He himself held to the moral ideals but went back and forth on his faith in a higher being. James came from a devout Irish catholic family and had once been the most faithful of them, he seemed to have entirely lost his faith in the past decade. On the other hand, Miranda had dove deeper into her Protestant roots than ever before, helped along by the community of them in the interior and the idea that it had been divine intervention that had seen the three of them to Nassau, together and unharmed. Today, he didn’t know if it was god he was thanking or fate or something else entirely but he was thanking whoever had been looking out for James. He opened his eyes to see James handing poor Randall over to Billy.

Max shifted her grip from his waist to his back, giving him a small push forward.

“James?” He called, “Are you. . .”

He stumbled to a stop, frozen. He forced his burgeoning panic to recede, in order to make sense of what he was seeing. _He’s hurt_, was his first crazed thought, but he knew that it wasn’t true. Randall was the one who’d lost a leg in order to save his life. The blood on James wasn’t his, it couldn’t be, but he was having trouble convincing himself of that fact. There was blood splattered across James’ face, down his white shirt, and his forearms and hands were covered in it.

Sound roared to life around him and he became aware that those around him were all talking at once. Jack was the loudest of them, his anxiety spiking above everyone else‘s more calm response. James didn’t say anything, his gaze finding Thomas’ and fixing there.

“You cut that close,” Charles observed, “a moment more and none of you would have made it out.”

“It was too fucking close,” Jack agreed.

“Captain, the main mast may need some minor repairs,” Hal said, “but overall it could have been much worse.”

“I see the blade could cut through bone,” Silver said, his casual voice standing out amongst the others. Thomas sensed the group swivel to focus on Silver but he and James didn’t.

“What kind of-“ Jack said.

“I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut, thief,” Charles said dangerously, and when didn’t he sound dangerous, but Thomas didn’t care, couldn’t care about any of it. He only saw James, covered in blood, but standing, breathing, alive. The pounding in his chest was getting quicker, louder, until he could barely hear what they were saying.

Delicate hands clasped his arm, hands too soft to be Anne’s. Max was whispering something to him, but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t understand a goddamned thing, because James had moved one step forward. One step closer. There was a small quirk to his mouth and he reached a hand out, “Thomas?”

That he heard just fine and that was the moment where everything fully fell away and all that was left was James. He crossed the distance between them in a blink and looking back he wouldn’t be able to say who he pushed out of the way, or stepped around or what, all he knew was he reached James and somehow had him in his arms. He heard his own voice saying, “thank god, thank god, _James_,” and James saying, “hey, I’m alright, I swear, love, I’m here, I’m alright.” His arms were wrapped around James, who was gripping him back just as tight. James smelled like copper and sweat and something else under it all that was inherently James.A hand cradled the back of his head, warm and sticky, and probably getting blood on him, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the man in his arms.

Distantly he was aware of Charles snarling threats and Jack stepping in to more gently persuade the others to give them space. His main focus was the man in his arms - warm, solid, alive, really and truly alive. He breathed in, the tension he’d been carrying seeping out and away like the tide. “We can stand here as long as you like, but the sooner we deal with Silver the sooner we can go home and get this blood off of us,” James said tiredly and Thomas stepped back and managed a shaky smile. He didn’t go far, cradling James’ face in his hands, rubbing at the splatters of blood with his thumbs and succeeding only in smearing it more.

“Hey,” James’ hands came up to grab his, “it was close, but I made it. I’m sure I look a frightful mess, but this blood isn’t mine. I’m okay, Thomas, I swear I’m okay.”

“Never scare me like that again,” he managed to say and James gave him that same odd, quirk of a smile.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, “but we both know I can’t make that a promise. Going to sea, chasing treasure, it’s dangerous. Unpredictable. But I can promise to do everything in my power to come back, as whole as I can manage. This was a good day, darling. Randall will live, I’m okay, and the ship is repairable. Let’s take our victories where we can get them, yeah?”

“Yes,” Thomas agreed, “of course.”

“And maybe we don’t have to tell Miranda just how close it was,” James said but Thomas wasn’t really listening, too busy drinking in James’ wry smirk and the dancing twinkle in his eyes and the low rumble of his voice. He didn’t realize he’d gone too quiet until James grabbed his hands again and arched an eyebrow at him.

“I still have to deal with Silver and check-in with Eleanor - do you want to stay? I’ll understand if you want to go home and rest,” James said.

Thomas wrapped his arms back around James, pressing his face into his shoulder, “I’m afraid, I won’t be letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future.”

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” James huffed, “Silver will be grateful for your moderating presence, I’m sure.”

Thomas laughed, lightheaded with relief and joy and goodwill for the universe that had seen fit to return James to him unharmed.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

“So, now that crisis has been averted can we nail down our deal?” Jack was leaning back against a post, glancing around the tent, “The sooner that’s decided the sooner Mr. Gates and I can see to the men.”

“Unless there’s no need for us in this discussion?” Hal asked, “or do our esteemed captains need reminders to control their tempers?”

Charles kicked a chair out from under the table and dropped into it, “we can mind our fucking manners, I think we have a clear enough idea of what’s at stake here. Anyone who wants to make themselves scarce or who has better things to do - fuck off now.”

“Adding a please to that would kill you, wouldn’t it?” Jack grumbled but levered himself away from the post and towards where Anne was already inching towards their crew’s tents.

James remained silent and motionless where he was standing in the farthest back shadows of the tent. It allowed him to glare as Hal retreated with only the slightest glance in his direction. His quartermaster was doing that more and more often as of late. It also, though he wouldn’t admit it, gave him the distance he needed. The adrenaline was still pounding in his veins, Randall’s blood was still sticky and damp upon his skin, and John Fucking Silver was still a lingering, smugly infuriating specter. He was ever mindful of Thomas’ presence at his side, of his ability to peer into the depths of James’ soul. The shadows would cover any inclinations toward violence that slipped to the surface. Or so he hoped. “Eleanor,” he said, “you may as well stay, your interests are as involved in this as ours.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, we didn’t finish our earlier discussion,” Eleanor said, pulling out the chair next to Charles and settling in it, “but I would appreciate you cleaning up. You’ve got a water jug and cloth aplenty, wipe off some of that blood, would you? You look ghastly.”

“Fine,” James sighed, moving to rub at his face and stopping just in time. He glared at his bloody palm. He sensed Thomas move away and forced himself not to react. His lover had overlooked the blood in his relief that James was okay - that didn’t mean he’d continue to be blasé about it once the moment was over. He had no right to be upset at Thomas for easing away. For getting his own kind of distance. This was why he was lurking in the shadows, why he tried to be James around Thomas and Miranda rather than Flint. Who could love a monster?

“Here, let me,” Thomas murmured, his hand taking James’ bloody one and pressing a damp cloth into it, “you wipe your hands,” he continued in a soft tone that nonetheless brooked no argument and James did as instructed without hesitation. Thomas cradled his jaw in one hand, the other wiping across his skin and beard with a second cloth in gentle strokes. James swallowed the lump in his throat.

“There you are,” Thomas smiled at him, the cloth moving from his face to rub at his hairline and his ears, scrubbing at the blood that had gotten that far. James closed his eyes, the last of the adrenaline seeping away. Only stubbornness kept him standing upright when every part of him wanted to sway forward and collapse into Thomas.

He opened his eyes, letting his soaked rag drop to the sand and catching Thomas’ hands in his, “I think that’s as good as it’s going to get, for now,” he said, “thank you, Thomas.”

“Pardon,” Max said, “I do not wish to rush you, but I can only be away for so long before Noonan takes it out of my wages.”

“The amount we’re paying you, should more than cover the loss in wages,” Charles said, “if Noonan causes an issue, direct him to me.”

James squeezed Thomas’ hands and then let go, moving further into the depths of the shadows. He wasn’t prepared for Thomas to follow him and stand beside him. But he was grateful for it.

“Let's get this over with,” Charles was saying, “you, Silver, what did you decide? Your presence would suggest you want to trade the schedule for a place in one of our crews and a fair share of the prize.”

“That is correct,” Max said, “per our agreement - he will face no repercussions for how he came into possession of the schedule.”

“Agreed,” Charles said, “now all that remains is to decide which crew, and for you to hand over the schedule.”

“Perhaps Mr. Silver should choose his crew,” Thomas said, “I think it would make everyone feel more comfortable if he was on a ship of his choosing, among the crew and captain he finds. . . least threatening.”

“Fine by me, just don’t tell Jack - he’ll never let me hear the fucking end of it.”

“I don’t particularly care which crew he’s on,” James said after a long moment, looking at Silver with distaste. He could feel his upper lip curling into a snarl of its own volition, “my opinion of him, and of his trustworthiness, won’t change either way. I’m not convinced killing him isn’t the correct choice.”

Thomas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We had an agreement,” Max said.

“We’re pirates,” Charles shrugged, “I’m not sure we need him either. Presumably, he’s got the schedule on him, we take it, kill him, and this whole thing gets a lot less messy.”

“Hold on just one second, wait, wait, wait, you can’t be serious,” Silver said. “Surely you’re not reneging on your sworn word? You need the schedule, you need me.”

Every head swiveled to look at Silver. James remained still. “I mean, come on, Vane, will anyone ever strike a deal with you again if word gets out? With either of you? And word would get out, it always does. Why risk it?”

“Captain Vane, to you, thief,” Charles said and James could see the twitch in his sword hand. “And, to be honest, the people whose opinions I care about won’t give a damn that I killed a thief. We’re still prepared to spare your life if you provide the schedule -“

“Are you fucking with me? Captain Vane. I want my share, the one promised to me. Or you won’t get the schedule.”

“Who’s going to stop me from taking it from you?” Charles reclined back in his chair, his earlier tension dissipating like it had never existed. It was an act, but a skillful one. “You? I’d like to see you try and stand between me and something I want.”

“You can try, but taking it from me simply isn’t possible,” Silver said, his arms crossed in front of him and his mouth slanted up in an infuriating smirk.

“You sound confident of that, Mr. Silver,” Eleanor said, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hand. “Why is that, I wonder. Could it be that you don’t have-"

“Oh, I have it. Only, it’s not somewhere you can steal it.”

“What the fuck does that mean,” Charles said with a scowl.

But Silver wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead, he was peering into the darkness that hid James.

“Captain Flint,” he said, giving Charles a wide berth as he rounded the table to stand in front of James. “Cooler heads can still prevail, give me a chance to explain.” Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Thomas’ hand twitch towards him. He knew that he must be tempted to place a restraining hand on him, to prevent him from losing his temper, “oh, this won’t end well,” Thomas muttered. James stepped forward.

“Silver,” he said, “Let me explain why choosing me to plead your case to is a particularly bad idea.”

The thief spread his hands in front of him in an entreaty, “you must understand, I foresaw that one or both of you would want to kill me once you had possession of the schedule. I took steps to ensure my safety. To protect myself, you understand.”

“If you’re saying what I think you are, you won’t find understanding or sympathy from my corner.”

“Truly? What step wouldn’t you take to preserve your well being? Or that of someone you care about. I’ve only been on Nassau a couple of days, and I know there’s little you wouldn’t do to further your own ends, Captain Flint. Your lovers have benefited immensely from that mindset. Often to the detriment of others. Are they aware? Do they know what you’ve done in their names?”

“Pardon, but I must have heard you wrong and if I didn’t - I would thank you to refrain from commenting on our personal affairs,” Thomas started forward, but James put a hand on his arm, tugging him back.

“This line of discussion won’t go any further,” he said, “but I will tell you this. Ever try and manipulate me through them again and I will not hesitate to remove you from the equation. I’ll let you imagine the method.”

“John,” Max murmured.

Silver glanced at her and jerked his head in a nod, “fine, is now a good time to tell you I burned the schedule?”

The part of him that was left of James McGraw would look back and wish he could say he had acted on sheer instinct and reflex. But he knew that every part of him had been fully aware of what he was doing, and had enjoyed it immensely, when he had grabbed Silver and thrown him down onto the table. He pinned him there by the throat, leaning in close to give the little shit a good look at how angry he was. Silver groaned, mumbled, but didn’t fight his grip.

“Was that really necessary?” Eleanor asked, with exasperation.

“Yes,” Charles said, “if he hadn’t, I would have done something worse.”

“I’m sure there will be a next time. If we don’t kill him,” James said.

“Well, as long as there’s a next time,” Eleanor drawled, moving to straighten the maps and tools that had been sent flying.

“I apologize for my partner,” Max inched closer to Eleanor, standing behind her chair, “but I think you should allow him to explain further.”

“James,” Thomas said, his hand falling to rest on the back of James’ neck. He glanced away from Silver long enough to get caught in Thomas’ too blue, entreating eyes. He sighed, and loosened his grip on Silver.

“Talk fast,” he growled.

“I memorized the schedule, it’s all up here,” he tapped his temple, “ I couldn’t risk you killing me, this way, I’m inseparable from the information that will allow your venture to succeed. Threaten me all you want, but I’m not giving you the schedule until the last moment.”

“And what, pray tell,” James leaned closer, “will prevent me from killing you once we have the gold?”

Silver smiled, big and wide and false, “maybe we’ll be friends by then.”

James bared his teeth at Silver, gratified at how the thief's smile faltered.

“Cocky little thing, isn’t he,” Charles observed.

Thomas chuckled, his hand still warm on James’ neck. His thumb was stroking him there, and it was the only reason James had any kind of grip on his control.

“Give us half the schedule now,” Eleanor leaned over the table to glare at Silver, “to demonstrate that you have, in fact, managed to memorize it.”

“Happily,” Silver said, “once I’m physically able to.”

Flint exhaled through his gritted teeth, “good enough for everyone?”

“For now,” Charles said and Eleanor nodded as she settled back in her seat.

“I believe we can trust him to look out for his own interest in the gold,” Thomas murmured, “ and I would very much like to get home at a decent time tonight.”

James nodded, looking up to catch Max’s gaze, “and you? What do you think? Your credibility is on the line with him.”

“Ah, I, well, I wouldn’t have brought him to you if I didn’t have full confidence he would deliver.”

He nodded and released Silver, pushing back from the table to give him space to stand. “I hope you realize how close you came to dying tonight.”

Silver nodded, rubbing his throat, “oh, I understand. You can trust me, as long as our goals align.”

“Cocky shit,” Charles shook his head.

“John, please get on with it and transcribe the first part of the schedule,” Max said, her hands snaking down to rest on Eleanor’s shoulders.

“Oh, take your time,” Charles pulled a knife from his belt and set about using it to clean dirt out from under his nails, “it’s not like we have better things to do.”

* * *

“Amazing,” Miranda murmured.

“One word for it,” Max said, “I wish I could say that I understood John’s choice or that I could defend it. But, in truth, I barely know him. I’m not sure why he chose to sail with Flint, not after. . .”

“After how James lost his temper,” Miranda finished. They were standing just inside the bookshop, far enough away from the others to talk and not be overheard. It was an odd gathering of people, one that would have been unheard of last week. She narrowed her eyes, trying to understand the events she’d been told about. “I didn’t expect everyone to return here,” she said, “or for them to be in such high spirits. I’d heard of the accident with the Walrus from town and I was prepared to find a very different situation once I arrived home. There is no part of me that expected to find _this_.”

“Is it the chains and shackles you were surprised by?” Max said, shooting her a sly look.

“Partly. It doesn’t shock me that James wants Silver secure, but I would have thought he’d leave him on the beach with the crew. Surely, Mr. Bones and Mr. Gates could have looked after him but that being said -“

“You trust Flint’s judgment,” Max said, “that he must have a reason to want Silver within sight and contained. I, for one, believe it a necessary evil until they all learn to trust each other. John. . . has proved slippery even to me. If he decides his ends do not align with Flint’s or Vane’s I fear what will happen.”

“Dear God. I hope that never comes to pass.”

“As do I. I’m wondering if the gold at the end of this will be enough to get such different men to work together. There are a lot of egos in this venture.”

She was smiling at Miranda, a devious glint in her eyes, “the part that surprises me is that you and Thomas haven’t sent the rest of us packing and retired with Flint to savor the fact he’s uninjured and breathing.”

“Mm,” she said, “perhaps later - but then, who would keep an eye on Silver?”

“Vane,” Max said, “surely Flint trusts him enough for that.”

“Well,” she temporized, “after some arm twisting he likely would admit to trusting Charles that far. But I’m hoping he’ll come to that conclusion on his own, and soon. He was looking the worse for wear when I returned and if I had my way he’d be resting somewhere Thomas and I could keep an eye on him.”

Max nodded, “that’s understandable. Would you like my help persuading them to retire for the night? I suspect I can coax Anne and Jack back with me, and Vane is likely to follow them.”

“I may take you up on that.”

She inched further into the bookshop proper, easing through the rows of shelves. With Max’s help, it would be easy to begin hinting that their guests should go looking for their beds. It was nice to see James, and Thomas for that matter, socializing more but she had no desire to repeat the night before and be stuck entertaining until the small hours of the morning. She was so absorbed in her plotting that she hardly noticed as she rounded the last bookshelf and came within sight of the small sitting area. She didn’t let herself think about it as she lingered in the shadow of the bookshelf, where she could watch without being seen. Max stuttered to a stop behind her. Mercifully she didn’t say a word.

She would just look for a moment. And then she would pick up her mask, and her duties as a host and go join the small celebration. It couldn’t hurt to pause for a moment.

It was quite the celebration. The room was lit with lanterns, and the counter with the money till had been taken over by bottles of alcohol, with Jack playing bartender and pouring drinks. The bottom floor of their bookshop had windows every few feet and someone had drawn the curtains, lending the room a more intimate feel. The amount of abandoned glasses and plates of food made it look more like a tavern than a book store’s sitting room. Thomas was telling a story, his hands gesturing along, and Charles was grinning, and Anne was leaning against the wall, pretending not to be listening, and James. . .

James was reclining in the chair Thomas was perched on the arm of, his head tilted back as he laughed, laughed like he only did around her and Thomas. Here he was, surrounded by people who’d only known him as the fearsome Captain Flint until recently, but every inch of him in this moment was James McGraw. He was so relaxed that even the presence of Silver wasn’t impeding it.

Poor Randall was propped up on the couch, sleeping or unconscious, and cuffed to Silver who was sitting on the floor. Max laid a hand on her shoulder, startling her, “I see John is still chained,” she whispered.

She acknowledged the observation with a jerk of her head, but her attention was fixed to her lovers. Thomas was leaning back against James, saying something to him, his blue eyes alight even from a distance. They both looked so content, so happy to be alive, and she could not look away from their smiles. It struck her that she may never get so see them like this again, James would go back to sea soon and it would be dangerous and he may not return. His loss would destroy Thomas. It would level the foundation of her world. She’d had a decade with him, and longer with Thomas, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, she suspected it would not be enough when all three of them were old and grey and wrinkled. And then she must have made a movement, an unconscious gesture or flinch maybe, because James glanced over and saw her standing there. He gave her a puzzled look. He opened his mouth, lifted a hand to wave her closer, but she shook her head quickly. There was a tight feeling in her chest. It was hard to breathe. James’ puzzled look became a frown as he stared at her, his gaze searching for something in her expression. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know if she wanted him to find it. James opened his mouth, his lips forming her name and she stumbled back, running into Max.

“Miranda?” Max murmured, her warm hands steadying her.

She blinked, and the room came back into focus. It was quiet and James wasn’t the only one staring at her. Max’s hands squeezed her shoulders, “I think we should give our gracious hosts a break and retire to the brothel,” she announced, “We can take Silver and Randall with us and sequester them in a room, I think all of us will rest easier that way.”

“Not me,” Silver muttered, “but I can see my vote doesn’t count.”

“How astute,” James said as he eased Thomas to the side and stood, not once since he’d noticed her had he looked away. She missed his smile from before. “Miranda? Love?”

“Go to them,” Max said under by her breath before giving Miranda a gentle nudge forwards. And she was going to, she was going to walk towards them, she stepped forward and then she stepped backwards. That tight feeling in her chest was getting worse, constricting, and she couldn't breathe. If her insides weren't strangling her, it would have been simple to walk to them. Thomas was standing now too, his hand wrapped James' forearm. His thumb was stroking small repetitive circles there, as they stood and looked at her with concern. It was just, they were here, alive, and they'd been happy moments before. Before she'd made a fool of herself.

"Apologies," she said, tearing her eyes away and looking down at the floor, "I think I need some air."

No one spoke - the earlier cheer replaced with tension as she slipped away from Max and up the stairs to their living space. She loosened the ties of her dress once she was out of sight and made her way to the balcony doors. The emptiness of the second floor was a welcome reprieve from the close quarters below, and the vice in her chest loosened once she was out on the balcony.

The night was chilly, for Nassau, which meant the street below was empty. She had the spot to herself and she tucked herself back into the corner, leaning against the wall. Her gaze lingered on the horizon. Soon James and his ship would disappear over that horizon and her whole world would shake. It always did when he left the island. After a while, her breathing slowed and the tension began to ease away. Her eyes fluttered shut, she pictured James' and Thomas' smile in her mind's eye, imagined a scenario where she had joined them, where she was smiling just as bright, and she was so invested in this scenario, she was caught off guard by the voice near her.

"Miranda," James was standing in front of her, the stars a breathtaking backdrop behind him. Miranda dragged her gaze from the night sky to his weary face. "are you alright?"

The night was dark, the lights from the town too dim to light up their surroundings. His face was cast in shadows. Miranda gave a taut smile. "I'm perfectly healthy, James. I'm tired from my trip to the interior. I'm afraid I forgot how to properly entertain our guests."

James' face was obscured by the dark, but not so much so that she couldn't see the steely stubbornness in his eyes. He waited a beat before answering, as if he was giving her a chance to say more, explain better. "No one cares about that," he said.

"Good. Well, shouldn't you get back and see them off? Perhaps escort them to ensure Mr. Silver is contained to your liking."

"They left ten minutes ago. Thomas is bathing. You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?"

"There's nothing to talk about, James, my darling, I'm merely tired. Go join Thomas, you've still got blood in your hair."

"Come help me," James said, "please, come inside and talk to us."

"James," Miranda said, "I will in a bit, or at least, I'll come inside. But we've already had this conversation, I don't see any value in rehashing it. So please, go clean up, go spend time with Thomas, but I can't do this tonight. Alright?"

"Oh," James stepped closer, his face visible and lit up from the light seeping through the open doorway. "This is about me leaving. Miranda, love, this venture has gone so far that there isn't any stopping it now. I have to see this through, for you, for Thomas, for Nassau. I want to build this island into the refuge Thomas dreamed it could be, into a place where you can find music, and laughter, and happiness. I thought you understood that. I'll do everything I can to return to you, I swear, so please just-"

As if on cue, the light was cut off and James' impassioned face was lost to her, Thomas' form appearing in the doorway and blocking the light. His hair was damp and hanging in his eyes, his gaze shrewd as he glanced between them quickly. "James, Miranda," he murmured, "everything alright?"

"Of course," Miranda said, "I was just enjoying the cool air."

"It is unusually nice out tonight. I've decided to take it as a good omen, shall we say, a sign in our favor. Are you taking a bath, James? Or should I empty the tub."

"Not yet," James said shortly, "leave the water, I'll bathe later."

"James, just go wash up, the water will get cold."

Thomas glanced between them again, "I see," he said, "I'm going to leave you two to it. Come inside once you've sorted it out, and do try not to take all night. I'd like to savor what could be our last night altogether for a while."

"He'll be in soon," Miranda said. They were quiet after Thomas slipped back inside. He'd left the door open behind him, and the sound of him puttering around the kitchen filtered out to them. Miranda's hands found her elbows, rubbing warmth back into her arms.

"Please understand," she said, "I'm not angry with you James, I don't mean to take out my frustrations on you. You are right, this venture is too important to abandon. I'm the one with the problem, you see? I thought I could handle you going, I convinced myself it would be just like every other time you've gone to sea, but it turns out I can't lie to myself."

James didn't say anything, his green eyes soft and intent on her.

"On rare mornings," she continued, "when you're gone and Thomas has left the bed before me, I wake alone. On these days, you've been gone long enough that the bed barely smells of you, and the sheets beside me are cold. And for a single terrifying moment, I'll think this last decade was all a dream. That we didn't escape London together, that I'm alone, Thomas is distant from losing you, and our lives are ruined beyond repair. I don't think I can survive that becoming a reality."

"Miranda," he whispered.

"I've never asked, I've always been scared of your answer. That day, when you proposed taking the blame and leaving London alone - did you mean what I think you meant? When you said you would never darken _anyone_'s doorstep again?"

She turned her gaze away from him, unprepared to see the expression on his face; she wasn’t ready to see the answer she knew would be written there. He didn't speak for a moment, and then she heard him move, his boots knocking into her shoes as he stepped closer. His hands fell to her shoulders, and she was startled into looking up and meeting his gaze.

"James?"

"If you thought I meant I'd kill myself," he said, "then you wouldn't be far off. I don't think I would survive long past losing you both. I wouldn't have had the will to go on. If a version of me survived, it would not be a version I think you or Thomas could love."

"I don't want to live without you James, I don't want Thomas to either. And I don’t want to ruin tonight, please, let's go inside and I'll do my best to cheer up."

"I don't want you pretending you're okay when you're not, Miranda -"

"This isn't something you can fix, James, you've promised to do your best to come back and I can't ask for more than that. This one's on me, I need to figure out a way to accept that."

James tugged her close, wrapping her in his arms. She collapsed forward into his warm chest, tucking her face into his neck. His hand carded through her hair, his fingers expertly sliding over and weaving around the pins holding it in place.

“Tell me what I can do to assuage some of your fears - if there’s anything I can do to help - no matter how big or how small, I’ll do it.”

Miranda weighed that. James just held her, waiting. He would stand there with her all night if that’s what it took, she knew. If she asked him to._ I’m scared for you_, she considered saying. But he knew that, it was why James was out on the balcony with her, promising to fix something that couldn’t be fixed. “Just, keep people you trust close, okay? People who have an interest in keeping you alive.”

“That’s a short list.”

“Longer than you think. Hal and Billy both come to mind.”

“Not Vane and his lot?”

“Them too, but they’ll be on the Ranger,” Miranda pointed out, “not close enough to offer help if something goes wrong on the Walrus.”

“On the Walrus. Miranda, do you fear that I’ll face a mutiny?”

Miranda hesitated. “There’s a large sum of gold at the end of this, James,” she said softly, “If your crew discovers your plan for divvying it up. . .” she leaned back to look him in the eye. The furrows marring his brow told her he’d understood her point. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek: an intimate gesture he usually offered her when they reunited after a long separation. She couldn't think of a time where she'd been the one to offer it. His breath stuttered, his eyes widening. And then she kissed his other cheek, her lips trailing up to kiss his temple. James swayed forward, tilting his head to catch her lips with his and they kissed some more, lips on lips. His hands fell to her waist.

"James, Miranda are you - oh," Thomas leaned through the doorway, a smile on his face as they startled apart. "Thank Christ," he said, "I was beginning to think I would be sleeping alone tonight."

Miranda stepped back, searching James' face, "Let's go inside," she said, "together."

* * *

Somewhere, someone was banging on a door, and James tugged his pillow out from under his head and pressed it over his ear. He burrowed into the blankets and the warmth of the two bodies curled around him. The banging got louder, and he couldn't block it out. And then he raised his head and tried to pinpoint where it was coming from -

"Flint, Captain Flint," that was Hal and the knocking was coming from downstairs, "Flint, God damn you, wake the hell up. It's the Andromache."

"Fuck fuck fuck," he breathed as he struggled out from under Thomas and Miranda and stumbled around the room half awake, "where the fuck are my pants, fuck."

In the bed, Thomas lifted a bleary head. "Language, dear."

James fell silent but his cursing continued in the head. He had one leg in his pants and was fumbling for the boot that had slid under the bed, "do you see my shirt anywhere? Or my other boot?"

Miranda stretched and rolled over, sprawling across Thomas' back and propping her chin on his shoulder. "Your shirt's hanging on my vanity mirror."

He looked over, scowling as he spotted his wayward shirt. How had it gotten there? The banging ceased, and he blinked. Then, he heard the sound of glass breaking.

"Christ Almighty, if that was Hal breaking a window I swear I'll hang him from the mast by his toes. And he will pay to repair the damn thing - oh thank fuck," he said spotting his other boot. How distracted had he been last night for his shirt to be on the vanity and his boots on opposite sides of the bedroom? He couldn't think about that right now.

"Captain Flint, this really cannot wait," that was Eleanor's voice, it sounded like she and Hal were climbing the stairs.

Thomas yawned, and stretched, careful not to dislodge Miranda. "This sounds urgent, should we get out of bed as well?"

"I, no," James tugged on the boot and straightened his shirt, "no, I'll see what it's about. It's still the middle of the night, go back to sleep."

Miranda rolled off of Thomas, crawling to the edge of the bed. "Don't kill them, I like them."

He strode over, gently tilting her face up and pressing his mouth to hers, "go back to sleep. If my guess is right - I may be setting off on the Walrus for a bit, but I’ll be back before long."

"This isn't about the Urca?"

He pressed a kiss to her brow, "it's related, I think, but no, we're not going after the Urca just yet." He moved around the bed, leaning over Thomas who had rolled over to lay on his back.

"Captain Flint," Hal said, knocking on the bedroom door this time.

"One moment," he called back.

"Must you go?" Thomas murmured, his eyes still heavy and fluttering with sleep. "Come back to bed."

"I have to see what this is about," James said with a lazy smile. He was all too aware of the way Thomas was looking at him, the room lit only by the moonlight for the window.

"Come here, just for a moment. Please, James."

"Well, because you said please," he crawled onto the bed towards Thomas who pulled the covers back and folded him in, his deceptively strong arms wrapping around him. James knocked their foreheads together gently, smirking when Thomas glared up at him.

Nearby, Miranda was laughing at them.

"I still have to go," James whispered, "Hal will bust down that door eventually."

Thomas raised his chin a little, brushing their lips together, "he can have you in a minute," he said against James' lips. "_T__homas,_" James groaned, letting his head fall to the side. He tucked his face against Thomas', going boneless when a hand found the back of his neck and squeezed.

"You're a bad influence, my love," Miranda said. The bed creaked and shifted as she settled next to them. Her loose hair tickled his arm.

"Am not," was murmured into his neck.

"You are, you both are. And I must go, I'm going to get up." He could feel Thomas nod his head, their cheeks brushing. "Truly, I will move in a moment."

The bed shook, and James realized Miranda was laughing again. Her feet kicked at his, "you didn't take your boots off, you heathen."

"Because I'm not staying," he said, "I will move once this limpet lets me go."

Thomas elbowed him and James caught his arm and rolled them so they were facing. This landed him between his two lovers, one playing annoyed and one laughing. "I'm not staying," James said.

"So you've said," Miranda pressed her face to his shoulder.

"Yet you haven't followed through," Thomas tacked on, his arms winding around James' waist.

He opened his mouth to defend himself from their unfair accusations when he heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening.

"Please tell me one of you locked the door before bed last night."

"We could tell you that," Miranda said, "but it would be a lie."

Thomas just pressed closer, pillowing his head on James' chest. For his part, James tugged the blankets up to better cover his lovers. He was the only one dressed.

"Someone better be dead or dying," he said to Hal who was standing in the doorway. Eleanor was peering over his shoulder, her eyes wide.

"Ahh. . . yeah. No one is currently dead or dying," Hal spoke quickly, "but I suspect you will be soon changing that. As we speak, the Andromache is leaving Nassau. With her guns still on board."

"What should we do, Flint?" Eleanor asked.

James narrowed his eyes, "we go steal them back. Hal, go wake the men - mine and Vane's," he turned to Eleanor next, "will you go rouse Vane, Rackham, and Bonny? They're at the brothel."

"I suppose, what about Mr. Silver?"

"He will stay here, we can't risk him dying or getting otherwise incapacitated before giving up the rest of the schedule.”

"Great," Eleanor groaned, "and who's responsibility will he be?"

James arched an eyebrow at her.

"No, absolutely not. I'm not a babysitter Flint."

"It'll only be for a day or two."

"No, find someone else."

"Someone as trustworthy as you? Partner with Max, I'm sure between the two of you, you can keep him out of trouble."

Eleanor glared her hands on her hips. "Fine, but you owe me one, Flint."

"Yes, yes, now can you both please go do as I ask? I'll be right behind you, Hal."

It was funny, how red they both got as they looked back at his bed and remembered what, and who, they'd walked in on. Eleanor tugged Hal away from the door and he listened to them bicker as they retreated back the way they came.

Miranda snickered, "this was worth getting woken for. I've never seen Mr. Gates so flustered."

He sighed, sliding out from between the two of them. He stood at the edge of the bed, watching as the two of them curled up in the space he'd left behind, feeling something bright and warm settle in the pit of his stomach. He was smiling, and he had no good reason for it 

"Go back to sleep," James whispered, "I'll be back before you know it."

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I like, mostly due to the fight scene in it. Fight scenes are not my strong suit, so I struggled a bit.

* * *

“I took the liberty of choosing a skeleton crew from Vane’s men. The Ranger isn’t ready to chase the Andromache alongside the Walrus,” Billy said, “I figured Vane wouldn’t be left behind.” 

James raised his eyebrows. “You figured right,” he said, “I’d never hear the end of it if we went hunting without him.” 

“Yes, well, we only have room for about a dozen of his men. The rest will finish working on the Ranger. Mr. Gates is emptying one of the cabins to serve as quarters for Vane.” 

“Good,” James said, he could imagine the conversation that would have unfolded if Charles had been told to bunk with the crew. It was a shame Billy and Hal had foreseen the issue, it would have been amusing to watch Charles scowl and Jack splutter and try to persuade everyone to get along before Charles did something drastic. Anne would have smirked and lurked in the background. As amused by it all as James would have been. The thought put a smile on his face, and brought his shoulders out of their tired slump. 

It wasn’t until he was standing on the upper decks at daybreak, spurring his crew and his ship to greater speeds, that it hit him what it meant, having Charles aboard. Up to this point, he and Charles had been operating as uneasy equals in their partnership. Maintaining that balance on his ship, surrounded predominantly by his crew, would be a trial of his patience. It would be tempting, and easy, to overrule Charles’ say in anything. He wished Thomas had come along. He would have known just how to navigate these waters, how to keep them from dissolving back into their rivalry. 

“Piece of eight for your thoughts?” Charles climbed the stairs to stand next to him. “Billy is doing a good job selling the crew on your plan.” 

“Ah,” James braced his hands on the railing, “yes, he’s a loyal bosun. He aired his doubts to me privately.” 

“He’s as smart as I thought, then.”

“What makes you say that?” 

Charles shrugged, “this maneuver is usually suicidal. And he knew better than to question you in front of others.” 

“I wasn’t aware you had an interest in Billy.” 

Charles turned to lean his back against the railing, facing the opposite way. He didn’t comment on his observation. James studied the men moving around the deck below them. “He’ll make a good quartermaster one day,” he said. “If he can learn the dance.” 

“What’s this?”

“You know as well as I, Charles, that there’s a two in three chance that Bryson will have changed his route to avoid us. Billy must learn the value of not acknowledging that in front of the men. It does them no good, they need surety.” 

“There never was a Caesar that couldn’t dance that tune. You’ve said before, Flint.” 

Charles angled his head back to catch his gaze, his teeth bared in a menacing grin. He leaned over and shoved his shoulder, “you have a tendency to lecture when you’ve been drinking,” he mocked. James stood there for several moments, stunned by the gesture. At the playfulness behind it. It was a normal gesture. . . between friends. He hadn’t known Charles was capable of it. Well, that was unfair. He’d seen him be playful with Jack, and on occasion Anne. It was just the fact that Charles had offered it to him that was confounding. 

But as it turned out, he didn’t have much time to ponder that turn of events. He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of feet running across the deck, by someone shouting for him. James straightened his jacket and descended down to the lower deck, aware of Charles following close behind. He descended from the final step and surveyed the scene in front of him. 

“What the fuck is going on,” he said 

“You,” Singleton growled, “you’re leading us on a goose chase that will see us all killed.” 

“I see. What makes you say that?” 

Singleton spat at his feet, “I overheard Mr. Gates and Billy talking. I heard more than enough.” 

“We don’t have time for this,” James said, “let’s not waste time infighting when we should be preparing to attack and board the Andromache. It will be risky, but the gold on the other side of this, the paradise I can offer you, will all be worth it. Haven’t I kept your pockets full? I will make you the princes of the new world. You just have to let me.” 

“You fucking smug prick,” Singleton growled. James tucked his thumbs through his belt. “You think you know everything. You’re going to get us all slaughtered chasing after this mythical treasure. I don’t think you deserve to Captain us, not when you’re keeping secrets the way you are.” 

“I have put my life and my own capital behind this ship for years,” he said. Loud and firm. Pitched for the whole crew to hear. “Whatever I had to prove to you, to the crew, I have done several times over.” 

“We both know that’s not true.” Singleton edged closer. He was close enough now for his rank breath to reach James, to make him fight the urge to lean away. 

“You got our Quartermaster in your pocket, and now Vane and his too, but how long will that last? They won’t protect you forever. You’ll have to answer to the crew you’ve left in the dark time and again, the crew you’ve looked down on from your high horse. And when that day comes, I’ll be here. Right now, you’ve got them all lusting after a treasure so rich it can’t be real. You’ve got them in the palm of your hand. But you and I know the truth, don’t we? You’re a fallen noble of some kind, playing at being a pirate until you grow bored. We’re all pawns to you, sacrifices to be made on your journey to, what, Fame? A road back to high society? It doesn’t matter, but it’s clear to all with eyes that you’re not one of us, and you’ve used that to your advantage. So you continue on this path, but you better sleep with one eye open. Because one day they’ll realize what you are, and I’ll be there to depose you and bury your body.” 

“I’m impressed, Singleton, I had no idea you were so verbose.” 

He should have seen the punch that happened next coming. As it was, Singleton’s fist bludgeoned his jaw, his heavy rings scraping and catching. It was the kind of hit that knocked the air out of you, that left your ears with a slight ring. When he could focus again, when he’d mastered his rage, the first thing he noted was the point of a blade underneath Singleton’s chin. A thin line of blood trickled down from where the tip met skin. 

“Try that again,” Charles said, “I dare you.” 

James prodded his jaw, wincing and examining the blood on his finger tips. Charles’ blade stayed where it was, digging into but not slicing through Singleton’s neck. There was a twitch in Charles’ sword hand, an alarming tightening of his grip. 

“Not so bold now,” Charles said, “are you? I’ve been itching for a fight, give me an excuse.” 

Singleton’s glare was so dark he worried he’d actually call Charles’ bluff. He hoped it was a bluff. He didn’t want to deal with the repercussions of Charles getting in a fight with one of his men to defend James. It wouldn’t do his, or Charles’, reputations any favors. 

Summoned by the trouble, Jack materialized behind Singleton.

“Ah, gentlemen, surely we can work whatever this is out. Without the need for blades,” he said.

Charles lowered his sword, slowly, and Singleton’s vengeful gaze never left him. The second the blade was down at Charles’ side, he moved to storm away. Only to stop short when he almost ran into Anne, her hands on her hips and her glare just visible from the shadow of her hat. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jack breathed.

“Not so fast,” Anne said, “I don’t believe your Captain gave you leave to tuck tail and run.” 

Singleton bared his teeth, but faced with her unimpressed gaze, he had no choice but to turn back and face James. “Are we finished? Or do you want to make today the day I knock you off your pedestal.” 

He sensed Charles begin to move and reached out to grab his elbow. 

“Mr. Gates,” he said, raising his voice to carry over the crew jostling for a better view of the tableau unfolding. He was confident his Quartermaster was nearby, despite his noninterference, “have I enough cause to challenge Singleton to a duel?” 

The crew that had begun to bicker, fell silent. The only sound left was the splash of the waves, the creak of the sails, and Hal’s heavy sigh. “Aye, you do.” 

James bared his teeth, taking a savage pleasure in the way the assorted crew winced and looked away. 

“Good.”

* * *

Miranda sat on the bench outside the tavern and sipped her tea. A quiet afternoon in Nassau, despite Richard Guthrie’s attempt to kick over the beehive. The road had been teeming with pirates two hours past, when Eleanor’s father had announced that the Guthrie’s were taking their business elsewhere. The peace reigning now spoke to the power base Eleanor had built. With James and Charles partnering with each other, and with her, there was no one left that would dare to challenge her. Miranda cradled her cup, rubbing her thumb over the rose delicately painted on the side. She didn’t look up when she heard the footsteps she’d been waiting for. 

“I was surprised to hear you wanted to speak with me,” Eleanor said, easing down to sit next to her. Miranda picked up the untouched cup of tea resting on her opposite side and handed it over, still steaming. Eleanor blinked down at it, and Miranda smirked. 

“I heard from Max,” Miranda said, “Congratulations on establishing your Trade Consortium.” 

“It was the only way to salvage my father’s mess. What’s the point of chasing the Urca if Nassau crumbles before it means anything?” 

Miranda frowned, quizzical. Eleanor gave her a grim smile. “If I had let things progress, if Captain Hornigold hadn’t backed my play, I think this island would be a smoldering ruin. That mob was calling for blood. My blood.” 

She took another sip of her tea and smiled. “It is well you took it seriously then.” 

Eleanor laughed, “I didn’t at first. Max and Silver impressed upon me the direness of the situation. I owe them gratitude, and you and yours as well. If it wasn’t common knowledge that I have Flint and Vane’s support I don’t think they would have fallen in line so quick.” 

“It won’t be easy, keeping order.” 

“No,” Eleanor agreed with a chuckle, finally sipping her own tea, “but if we can build the Nassau we want to, it’ll be worth it.” 

“Cheers.”

They clinked their teacups, smiled, and drank in companionable silence. After a moment, Eleanor’s face turned mischievous, “I’ve been meaning to ask, how does it work? Your arrangement with Flint and your husband.” 

“Oh, you may regret asking me that.” 

“You don’t have to answer, I’m prying. But, I -“ she hesitated. Looked away. 

“You?”

“I’m asking for more than simple curiosity.”

“Are you thinking of Charles or Max? Or both?”

“Not Charles, not really,” Eleanor gave a rueful smile, “I’ll always care for him. But we’re not healthy for each other.” 

“So it’s about Max.”

“She told me she loved me, and I think I love her. But, not more than I love Nassau or my dreams for it,” Eleanor said, her hands clenching around her teacup. “I saw the looks she and Bonny were trading the last couple of days and I. . . I worry I can’t offer Max what she wants.” 

“Relationships can be complicated.”

“Of course, I know that. But. How does it work when the relationship comes second? Can I expect anyone to stay with me if I prioritize my ambitions over them? How do you make it work with Flint?” 

Miranda sipped her tea, washing away the bitter remark on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t know Eleanor well, James was the one who’d made an effort to befriend the girl when she’d first begun to rise to power. Eleanor’s tendency to put her own plans above anyone else’s had been shown time and again, to the detriment of allies and enemies alike. It was something to watch out for. Mr. Scott was just the most recent example. And as for comparing her ambitions to James’ - ambitions that for her lover had come from events that included losing his lifelong career, their home in London, their _names_ \- to a girl’s fairytale of a safe and prosperous island? Miranda took a deep breath and let out her frustration in a sigh. 

“Every relationship is unique,” was all she said in the end. 

“Yes, but I think in this, ours are similar,” Eleanor insisted, “so please, indulge me. Does having Thomas make it easier? Is that why he’s your husband?” 

“I see,” Miranda said, “you’re really asking if sharing Max with Anne will keep her from leaving you. Assuming Anne can give her what you can’t.” 

“Is that so crazy? Isn’t that what Thomas does for you? And you for Thomas? You share a commitment with each other that Flint can’t offer you.” 

“Please remember you do not know a thing about my relationship with James and Thomas. You are making a lot of assumptions.” 

“I understand,” Eleanor said, “I do. And look - that’s why I’m asking. I know you love Flint, that he cares about you, but surely you sometimes feel that he’s putting his ambitions for Nassau above you and Thomas.” 

Miranda kept her gaze on her tea. It was a soft cream color. She had noticed Eleanor apply ‘love’ to her feelings and ‘care’ to James’. A revealing distinction. She let her rage trickle through her, straightening her spine, dropping her shoulders back, her hands and teacup resting demurely in her lap. It was the pose she’d adopted in many a salon in London to mask her true emotions. She waited for her breathing to even. _Lose your composure and lose the discussion_, Thomas would say, his hand resting on hers. _It’s not worth it,_ James would warn, his tried eyes looking away. 

Those had been the hardest lessons for her to learn. How to have discussions and not be dismissed out of turn. Which discussions were worth having to begin with. She had found, that any discussion James deemed unworthy was often one that involved defending him. Those, she was careful to always challenge. James deserved to be defended, especially when he didn’t think so. 

“Your father,” Miranda said, “he put his ambitions above you and your mother?” 

“My father? I don’t see how it relates, but yes, that’s common enough knowledge. He wanted a son. I was a disappointment from day one. His desire to prove his family wrong was always the most important thing to him.” 

“And you did the same to Charles. You prioritized your ambitions for the island above him. Your chance at proving your father was wrong to dismiss you. Do you deny it?” 

There was a long pause. Eleanor tipped back her tea and set the cup down on the bench between them. She studied her empty hands. “No,” she said finally, “I don’t deny it. I learned betrayal at my father’s knee. As much as I hate it, I’m his daughter.” 

“And you’re projecting that onto James, when the opposite is true.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. But the truth of it is, James’ goal to better Nassau? That’s not him prioritizing his ambitions over us, that’s him prioritizing us above all else. We would have never arrived on these shores if he hadn’t chosen to love us that much.” 

“How is that possible?”

“Try to understand,” Miranda said carefully, “you’re wrong when you say Thomas and I share something committed that James is not part of. He is not our lover because he couldn’t commit to someone fully. He is not failing either of us, or lacking anything. Please hear my words, for I don’t make a habit of explaining my personal relationships, and I will only say this once: James is my husband in every way that matters. I love him as much as I do Thomas. In different ways, because they’re different people. We’re all committed to each other, till death, and only death, shall part us. And even then, I pray we won’t be separated for long. James would die - and kill - for us, and we would do no less for him. Until you understand that basic truth, you won’t understand anything about him. Or me, for that matter.” 

She picked up Eleanor’s discarded cup and stood. Eleanor stood too, just watching her. “Don’t ever presume to understand our relationship again,” Miranda warned, her voice steady, “you colored James with your failings, with your father’s, because it made you feel better about your own actions. Grow a spine, Eleanor, and either accept your failings or work to improve. But don’t you ever make the mistake of thinking they are James’ again. If your relationship with Max fails, if you betray her as you did Charles, that is on no one but you. James has affection for you, and if he knew you thought this way about him. . . Well I hope you know better than to repeat any of this to him.”

Eleanor stood there, not saying a word. Her eyes boring into Miranda’s as if there was a secret hiding there she could decipher if she stared hard enough. “I would think,” she said slowly, “that Flint is the last person who needs someone to defend him.” 

“And yet. I am here, I am defending him.” 

“So you are,” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, her mouth opening and then closing. She sighed, her shoulders sagging, “I fucked this up, didn’t I?” 

Miranda smiled, “yours wasn’t the worst assumption someone has made of us. I was once accused of being Thomas’ wife for show only.” 

Eleanor threw her head back and laughed. “How anyone could think that with the way he looks at you, it beggars belief.” 

“Just so,” Miranda adjusted their teacups to carry one-handed, offering her free one to Eleanor, “I did mean my congratulations earlier. You should be proud of your consortium.” 

Eleanor clasped her hand with one hand, and gripped her arm with the other. “I hope we can still be friendly after my blunder.” 

“Certainly. As I said, James is fond of you. I wish you luck figuring things out with Max, she’s a tricky, clever little thing.” 

“I’ll need it,” Eleanor shook her head ruefully and Miranda grinned. She rescued her hand, adjusted her skirts, and shared a nod with Eleanor before setting off down the road. She gave the few loitering pirates a wide berth, stepping over a puddle from the morning rain shower. A hand caught her elbow guiding her over it and close to their side. 

“My fiercest love,” Thomas murmured. “It does things to my heart to hear you defend our James so ferociously. I only wish he’d been here to hear it from your lips.” 

“You overheard that much?” Miranda asked, leaning against him. “I thought you were fetching dinner from the market.” 

He raised his other hand, showing the bundle he was carrying. “I came to see if you wanted to walk back together.” 

“I’m glad James wasn’t here,” she said after a few moments of walking quietly, “I think it would have hurt more than soothed. He wouldn’t have wanted me to say what I did.”

“True, he would have said it wasn’t any of her business. But, you and I know, he would have defended either of us in the same situation.” 

She smiled, turning to press her cheek against his shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed, trusting him to guide her down the street. Their stride only faltered for a second before adjusting. 

“I hope your truest love returns to us soon,” she whispered. 

Thomas pressed a kiss to her hair, “as do I.” 

* * *

"I think this is a terrible, no good, very bad idea," Jack said.

"Too late for that," Charles was leaning over the upper deck's rails. They'd moved up here to give Flint and Singleton space for their duel. 

"Alright, we all know how this works," Gates announced from beside Flint, his voice pitched to carry across the ship, "A challenge of this magnitude ends at death, and no sooner." He looked at Flint after he spoke, but Flint didn't say anything. 

Jack supposed Gates had hoped Flint would change his mind at the last moment. But judging from the way Flint was shifting on his feet, the gleam of anticipation in his eyes, Jack wasn't surprised Flint was going through with it. For his part, Singleton was glaring darkly at Flint, his hands clenching around his sword. The excitement and bloodlust coming from the crew was unsettling.

"He's going to lose," Anne muttered to Jack, her shoulder brushing his as she joined them at the rail. "Flint has skill, but Singleton has more strength and less to lose." 

“Nah,” Charles said, his eyes had an odd glint to them, “Flint has more to lose, but that’s why he’ll win.” 

Anne leaned around Jack to smirk at Charles, “bet?”

“Bet,” he agreed. 

“What’re we wagering?” Billy called from across the deck, successfully garnering the attention of the surrounding crew. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, so much for keeping a low profile. “Personal favors,” he called back after a moment of cursing his particular brand of luck, “it’s not open to others.” 

There were mutters from the crew but a look from Bones had most of them shutting up. 

“So?” Charles asked, elbowing Jack, “who do you think will win?” 

“I think,” he said, pointedly casting his gaze to the deck below them, “that we’re going to miss the duel if this keeps on.” 

Charles rolled his eyes, Anne leaned further over the rail to get a better look, Jack’s hand in her belt the only thing keeping her from toppling over. Jack worried. Someone had to. 

“Any crew member who interferes will answer to me,” Gates was saying, “now give them space.” 

“Get the fuck on with it,” Charles yelled at them. 

“Try not to damage my ship, if you don’t mind,” DeGroot piped up, his tone bitterly resigned, “she’s been through enough.” 

“If you would shut your gobs, we’d have started already,” Flint growled, twirling his sword in a quick circle before settling into a ready stance. Singleton watched the move closely. 

“Whenever you gentlemen are ready,” Gates said. 

Jack held back a flinch as both men burst into movement on the lower deck, the sharp ring of metal striking metal abrupt and loud. He was surprised at how physical and violent their blows were, from the beginning. He’d have expected them to circle each other, taunting. Most fights between pirates started with at least some level of insulting each other. 

He’d witnessed a lot of sword fights over the years, and a few formal duels, but he could see this was something different. He’d thought he’d witnessed skilled swordsmen fight in the past - they had nothing on Flint. There was no hesitation in his movements as they shifted up and down the deck, twisting and lunging, swords meeting time and again. Flint held his in one hand, the other thrown out for balance as they danced. Singleton had both hands on his, capitalizing on the difference in raw power. 

Singleton tried to disarm Flint with a twist of his sword and Flint turned to the side and twisted around behind him. It forced Singleton to turn on his heel and raise his sword to block Flint’s blow in the same movement. Singleton deflected a second blow and went back on the offensive. Flint did a bit of fancy footwork and nearly managed to get in a slice at Singleton’s ribs. 

Then they both put some space between them, pausing to reassess. Flint bared his teeth, something predatory in his expression, in his movements. It was something Jack had seen hints of in the past, but he’d never seen Flint so animalistic with it. In truth, it reminded him a bit of Charles. They had the same dangerous quality to them when their blood was high and a fight consumed them. 

Singleton was scowling, frustrated and sweating under the sun. 

“You’re better than I gave you credit for,” Flint looked pleased with this fact. He was enjoying this, Jack realized. 

“Quit stalling,” Singleton growled, “your fancy feet won’t save you forever.” Flint rolled his shoulders and jerked his chin in a nod. “Fine,” he said and then attacked. 

“You,” Singleton panted between blocking punishing blows from Flint, “will not outlast me. You’ve grown lazy. Complacent.” 

Flint didn’t respond and the next time they paused it was because Flint had made a move that was too quick for Jack to follow and disarmed Singleton. His sword clattered to the deck several feet away. Singleton didn’t panic, instead, he charged, getting under Flint’s guard and striking at him with his bare fists. He was too close for Flint’s blade to be of any real use and he threw it aside. 

“Fuck,” Jack breathed. 

Singleton was laughing as their fight turned to wrestling on the deck. It made Jack uneasy and he glanced at Charles. Charles was grinning, he looked pleased and dangerous, and not at all worried. He turned back to the fight in time to see Singleton get in a good blow to Flint’s jaw, stunning him and throwing him back against one of the cannons. He slid to the ground and Singleton capitalized on the opening and lunged to continue his onslaught. 

“May as well concede now,” Anne commented. 

“Not yet,” Charles said, unconcerned. “Look.”

Jack and Anne turned back just in time to see Flint get his hand on a cannonball they’d knocked free in the course of their fight. 

“Damn it,” Anne muttered and Jack closed his eyes as the fight came to its predictable end. He still heard every horrifying sound as Flint beat Singleton to death with the cannonball. He swallowed, forcing his eyes back open. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch him flinching away from violence. There was a reason he preferred pistols, he disliked how. . . messy fighting like this was. 

It took a scant two minutes and in the end, Flint was standing on the deck, alone, covered in blood, sucking in air like he was dying. The crew was dead silent. 

“One favor,” Charles murmured, “I’ll collect later.”

Anne sighed. 

“Captain!” Bones shouted, “it’s the Andromache, she’s in sight.” 

Flint sucked in a breath and visibly held it, straightening his spine and pushing his hair out of his face. He sighed and folded his hands behind his back. His poise contrasting his bloody appearance. “Mr. Beaucampe, to your perch, if you please. Let’s catch this bitch.”

The crew exploded into movement, the bloody duel forgotten for the time being.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think I forgot Singleton? Without Vane egging him on like in the show, it took a bit longer for him to make his move.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holidays have been slowing down updates - work is crazy right now. I’m halfway through writing the next chapter and it should be up soon.

* * *

He was a liability, and he knew it. What was more galling, Charles knew it too. 

“Don’t lower your guard,” Charles said after blocking a blow with his sword that had been meant for James. He should have been able to block it, he knew. He’d been too slow, he was moving too slow. His fight with Singleton had left him tired and in pain and less than ready for another fight. He couldn’t match Charles’ pace and he was barely meeting that of his opponents. 

“Keep moving,” he growled. Charles delivered a beautiful uppercut to the pirate in front of him followed by a neat slice to his belly and James took out the two sneaking up behind them. The fighting on the Andromache’s deck was messy but too easy. Some of the opposing crew was missing, and it made James wary. He had a bad feeling. Something was off. 

“There’s no shame in it,” Charles said, grabbing his opponent by the neck and twisting him around to use his body as a shield from a second pistol-wielding opponent. He drew his own pistol, aimed it over the first’s shoulder and shot the second. “Singleton did a number on you.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Right. That’s why you’re limping and only blocking two out of every three strikes? You’d be skewered several times over if I wasn’t watching your back.”

“On your right,” James grunted, and Charles twisted out of the way, tripped the man, and shot him in the back with his pistol. Once. Twice. “Effective.”

“Blackbeard taught me well. Never wield just a blade, or just a pistol, if you can wield both. I notice you carry a pistol, but I’ve never seen you fight with it. Is it decoration?” 

“It’s not for fighting, or for show. It’s for making a point.” The one coming for him now was older and more skilled than the others. He had the healed scars and the alert eyes to prove it. James finished him in three moves - it should have taken him two. At most. 

He hoped Charles wouldn't notice, but of course, he did. Hoping he wouldn’t comment was futile. 

"Fine, you said?"

"Yes," James snarled.

"Prickly," Charles said, jumping up on a crate and then lunging off to tackle his next opponent who had been lining up a shot with a rifle. The crates toppled over, blocking one avenue of flanking their position off. "I'm not the one who challenged you. In fact, I won a favor off of Anne by betting on you."

James ignored that, taking down the next three to approach from their right side. 

"This is too easy," he muttered. Charles rejoined him and they stood back-to-back, fending off the last of the stragglers. "This isn't the entire crew."

"Bryson is up to something. But I take issue with calling this easy, boarding alone was an ordeal and a half." Charles said, baring his teeth at his opponent who had dared to get in his face. 

James rolled his eyes, turning back to the front in time to block a blow aimed at his head. He kicked the man away and slashed his throat when the man lunged forward at him. He panted, leaning some of his weight against Charles. He scanned the ship. That was the last of them. Of those who had fought on the upper deck, that was. 

"Captain," Billy called from the stairs leading down into the belly of the Andromache, "they're holed up down here. The vanguard is going after them.” 

"Too easy," James muttered, dropping his head back to bang it against Charles’. 

"It was too easy," Charles stepped away, grabbing James' shoulder when he stumbled, "and you are not fine."

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"Drop it."

"Yeah, okay. But I expect a bottle of your good liquor for being kind enough to keep you from getting disemboweled. Oh, and another dinner with you, Thomas and Miranda. I'm sure they'll want to thank me for keeping you alive," he said, sheathing his sword and holstering his pistol. 

"Charles," Jack called as he approached them, a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. It had narrowly missed marring his. . . unique facial hair. "You two good?"

"Fine," James said.

Charles sighed, "I need a drink."

"We're not done yet."

"Yeah, alright, come on, let's go finish this thing," Charles moved away and James closed his eyes. Taking a moment to get it together. He had a long night ahead of him. Bryson was going to make this as difficult as he possibly could. He would make them fight for every inch taken. James would do no less in his position.

* * *

It was eerie how quiet the Andromache was now. They’d found where Bryson and what was left of his crew were holed up below deck, with the fucking guns they were after. Charles knew he ought to say something - a caustic remark, a fatalistic joke, anything to get that anxious expression off of Jack’s face. But the atmosphere was a tense and stifling kind of quiet that had Charles hesitant to break it. He’d caught himself holding his breath twice already. Jack dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing at the cut on his cheek with a wince. 

He was missing his cut more than he was hitting it and Charles took the cloth from him. "Hold still," he said, finally daring to break the silence. He gripped Jack's chin, holding him in place when Jack began to fidget. 

"Don't," he growled when Jack opened his mouth, "say you're fine. I've had my fill of that particular lie." Jack's eyes found his, his pupils blown so wide that the brown blended into the black until it was near indistinguishable. It didn't do anything to hide how shaken Jack was. His eyes always gave away his lies. It was why he carried around those odd spectacles of his. 

"I _will_ be fine," Jack murmured.

“I should have been watching your back.” 

Jack’s mouth twitched, “and then we’d have a pin cushion for a partner instead of a feared Captain. Flint needed you more, Anne kept me out of trouble.” 

He grunted, narrowing his eyes at Jack when he tried to jerk away. That damn cut was still bleeding. He held the cloth over it, putting pressure rather than wiping at it. At this rate, they’d have to consider sending him to Doc Howell for stitches. 

“Flint would have managed,” he said, pressing hard against the wound until Jack winced. He ran his free hand up and down Jack’s arm, soothing him and keeping him still. “All he’d have to do is turn that withering glare of his on them and they’d topple over rather than face him.” 

Jack titled his head back and laughed. Charles let him move away, not following with the cloth. He eyed the cut, relieved that the bleeding was finally slowing. It hadn’t been that funny of a remark, but for some reason - Jack was still chuckling, the lines around his eyes crinkled with his amusement. He scrubbed at his check roughly, ignoring Charles’ grumble. Jack moved his hand away, the bleeding stopped for the moment, “see? I’m okay, Chaz.” 

“Any other injuries?”

“No, I told you, Anne was watching out for me. This,” he gestured at his cheek, “was due more to my clumsiness than anything else. I’ve had worse, you remember.” 

“We’ve all had worse. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

“Do you like anything? Besides rum and fighting.” 

He hesitated. He knew Jack’s question wasn’t serious - that it was an attempt to further lighten the mood._ I like you, I trust you_, seemed like the thing to say, if he were to take it seriously, but he couldn’t quite form the words or force them past his clenched teeth. It was partly because putting his relationship with Jack into words seemed paltry and inadequate. And it was partly because making the attempt would surely only end with Jack thinking something was wrong and panicking. In the end, ignoring the question seemed the thing to actually do.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said finally. Jack’s mouth twitched into a grin.

* * *

“To sum up, Bryson and his men are hiding in a second bunker and he has a hold full of slaves below who have signaled they’ll help if we can free them from their bonds,” Flint said to the three of them, huddled by the stairs, “To top it off, the ship is dead in the water and he’s tipped the Scarborough off to our location. And he felt sending a man with a message and grenade was the way to get his point across. So, we have to choose how to answer.” 

They exchanged glances. “Stay and fight for the guns we need and risk getting caught by the Scarborough or run and take our chances chasing the Urca without guns that can match theirs,” Charles said. 

“Shit choices,” Anne scoffed. 

“Yes.” 

“We don’t really have a choice. We won’t have a hope in hell without those guns.” Jack pointed out. 

“Agreed. I think the Walrus can outrun the Scarborough but we need to make a decision and make our move fast. Time is a factor. Once her sails are spotted the men will begin to panic.” 

“The fucking idiots are skittish already.” 

“Skittish but not mutinous. Trust me, we’re walking that fine line. We need to decide, quick, and give them something to do to stop them from thinking too much.” 

“Standard operating procedure for you, isn’t it, Flint?”

“Of course not, I would never deliberately distract my crew and obfuscate the risk inherent in my plans,” Flint’s face was grim and his voice even, but the mischievous light in his eyes and the easy line of his shoulders gave away his amusement. “So are we agreed? We go after the guns and then run like hell?” 

“Works for me,” Charles shrugged.

Jack and Anne exchanged a look just between them this time. They nodded. 

“Very well, then. I’m open to ideas on how to help free the slaves below.” 

“We need to get them something that can free them of their chains,” Charles said, frowning and rubbing at his chest. His hand lingered above where Jack knew his slave brand was hidden beneath his shirt, “we need to cause a distraction, a cover for the noise that will likely cause.” 

“I think we can manage to make enough noise for that,” Flint said with a smirk. "After all, your quartermaster is infamous for causing a ruckus at the drop of a hat."

Charles matched his stare, and there was a hint of a smirk to match Flint's lingering in the corner of his mouth. Jack arched his brows at them and dared to smile, "I have no idea what you mean."

"I'm sure. Well. I'll talk with Hal and Billy, I think we have a way to get a tool like Charles suggested to those in the hold below. I trust you three can handle the distraction, yes?" 

"Yes."

"Good. You three take care of that, I expect your success will be hard to miss. I'm going to have my hands full, so I'm leaving it entirely to you - I trust you won't give me cause to regret that decision. Lest you face a dinner with Thomas and Miranda that isn't about thanking you." 

He turned, made it two steps away and looked over his shoulder. He titled his head to peer back at them through the flickering light cast by the lanterns. “Oh, and Charles? You make for a decent shadow.” 

Before any of them could respond, he was walking again, Gates and Billy flanking him and both speaking at once. Flint directed his gaze upwards in supplication but he kept moving and he didn’t swat them away. 

“Cryptic fuck,” Anne muttered. 

“He’s English,” Jack said, “Irish? Whatever, he’s strange no matter what he is.” 

She crossed her arms, “and you, Captain? Do you know what he meant.” 

Charles was brushing his clothes off, the bloody handkerchief he’d used to tend Jack’s cheek still clenched in his hand. He straightened up and stepped closer to them, “That,” he said, his voice dropping to a volume only they would hear, “that was James Flint saying thank you.” 

Anne frowned.   
  
“Like I said, strange.”

Charles chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, “now, to business. Jack?”

“Oh, aye, leave it up to me. Of course.”

"Think you can beat tossing a grenade?"

"Depends. Where'd the axes go?"

In the end, it took Jack five minutes to have half the men attacking the deck with axes and the other half attacking each other with shouted words. He watched the mayhem, hands on hips and proud. Charles sauntered over from where he and Anne had been lurking to stand bedside him. Neither of them acknowledged Flint, off to the side, massaging his temples and sighing. 

“Did I do good?” 

“Fuck off, Jack.”

He grinned. 

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up with mere hours to go until 2020! (yes... this is what I'm doing on the eve) ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

He and Miranda had become friends because of their parents, the truth was.

In retrospect, it had been silly — becoming friends because their parents wanted them to be, but back then they’d both still thought if they did as bid they could earn familial love. It had taken years for them to realize that their parents’ love would never be theirs. Not truly, not in any way that had mattered. Miranda had figured it out first, of course, the same day they were informed of their betrothal. As soon as they’d been excused, Miranda had dragged him to the far end of the manor and into a rarely used lounge. She stood with her back to him, hands on her hips.

“You are my dearest friend, Thomas,” she said.

“I should hope so,” he said, irritated and ruffled.

“I want to marry you, but not because we were told it will happen.”

“As I want to marry you,” Thomas said, moving to sit on the couch by the dark and cold fireplace. He briskly rubbed his arms.

“Thomas,” Miranda said, and she sounded exasperated, “do you think your father loves you? The way he should?”

“Come and sit with me, won’t you Miranda? Come, sit, and help me understand what conversation it is we’re having as I seem to have lost the thread,” Thomas entreated. Miranda settled next to him, folding her hands in her lap.

“I have resigned myself to being more of a pawn to my parents than a person,” she said. He sighed.

“Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’ve done everything they’ve ever requested of me, exceeded every expectation and yet . . . ” she said, her voice quiet and strained. Her shoulders shook, and Thomas laid a hand across hers.

“Aren’t you as exhausted as I am?” she asked.

“I, yes, I suppose I am,” he said after a moment. “But, I’m not sure why you’ve chosen today of all days to bring this to light?”

Miranda surged to her feet and paced away from him. “It has to be today. I want to marry you, Thomas, but only if that’s what you want. Not because our parents want it. Do you love me?”

She turned to face him, never one to be a coward, and stared at him. Her hair was falling loose, her frame shaking with small tremors. He watched her as she stepped backward, pressing her back to the nearest wall. Confronting him but protecting herself.

“Thomas?” Miranda’s smile trembled, “in a moment I will take your hesitation as its own answer.”

“Mm,” Thomas said, still watching her. Miranda was beginning to become angry instead of anxious, her expression tightening into something dangerous. It was altogether a better look on her. The tremors stopped, her shoulders rolling back into a hard line. Her hands clenched into fists and he knew he had let her anger surge for long enough. He wanted her to move past her anxiety, but not so far past it that she became furious.

“Do you truly not know?” He asked, “of course I love you, I’ve been in love with you since we were twelve and you talked me into sneaking out to see the winter festival. That night with you was worth every punishment my father handed down.”

“Thomas,” she breathed, relaxing back against the wall. “That long ago?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, “you remind me that life is worth living, not just surviving. You taught me that a little rebellion is good for the soul. How could I not love you for that?”

Miranda gave a low throaty laugh, “indeed,” she said, “how could you resist me.”

“Now that we’ve established that I do, in fact, love you — will you enlighten me as to your plan?”

“Why should we wait for a forced ceremony to share our love? I want to be with you, Thomas, and I don’t want to wait any longer.”

He had a reply to that, he would have come up with one, but just then the grandfather clock in the entryway sounded. It was time for dinner and they would both face harsh reprisals if they were late. Miranda stayed where she was, her head tipped back against the wall, watching him from under her eyelashes. The murmur of voices reached them as the rest of the household and their guests began to move towards the dining room. Thomas stood and walked up to Miranda.

“In that case,” he murmured in her ear, “it is fortuitous that you and your parents are spending the night and traveling home on the morrow. Meet me in my room after nightcaps, if you want to. If you change your mind, we can forget all about this.”

“Agreed,” Miranda said, “but I won’t change my mind. I want this for us. What can they do? Force us down the aisle quicker?”

“It is your choice, my love,” Thomas let his eyes travel downward - down the graceful slope of her neck, following the embroidered neckline of her dress, tracing the cling of the silk fabric of the bodice and the skirt. When he looked back up to meet her eyes he relished in the knowing and smug look he found there. She smirked at him. He smirked back and tipped his head in acknowledgment.

He eased away and sauntered from the room, glancing back, just once to bask in the heated look she rewarded him with. Anticipation sang in his veins and he wondered how he would possibly survive dinner and drinks.

In truth, he more than half expected Miranda to regain her senses and not show up that night. The rest of him knew that would probably be for the best. And so he let the oil lamp burn low, and sprawled on the couch at the foot of his bed, a scotch in his hand. He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, savoring the lingering taste of the drink on his tongue.

He heard the creak of his door opening and realized he must have dozed off as the oil lamp had burned through its supply and gone dark.

“Thomas?”

“Here,” he murmured, blinking as his eyes adjusted. Miranda picked her way over to him, her path lit by the small candle she must have used to find her way through the dark manor. It cast enough light to allow him to study her, “your hair is down,” Thomas said.

“How observant. Do you prefer it pulled up?”

Thomas smiled, “this is equally as nice,” he said.

Miranda smiled back, running her fingers through her hair, twisting and curling a long strand around and around. “Good,” she said.

Thomas rose to his feet. He caught Miranda looking at the half-empty glass he’d managed to hold onto through napping and waking. She arched a brow and he hastily set it on the table. “Indulged in some liquid courage, I take it?”

“Oh, how else could I endure looking upon your beauty. Most sweet, most fair, alas you leave me full of desire, empty of wit. And I do so swear, I will but kiss, I never more will turn away.”

“Well, when you phrase it that way,” Miranda said and leaned in to kiss him. He heard the quiet thunk of her placing the candle down, but it was a distant realization as he returned her kiss. They’d kissed in the past, innocent, proprietary kisses to the cheek or brow. This was better, much better.

“I fear you are far more skilled at this than I am,” he murmured.

“That’s true of many things. It’s never stopped you before.”

It was a gauntlet thrown to the ground, a challenge if he had ever heard one. Thomas would not fail her here, he wouldn’t shy away from the dare in her voice. He tangled their hands together, squeezing, then releasing and stepping away. He shrugged out of his shirt, loosening his trousers as he backed up towards the bed.

Miranda stayed where he left her, and he felt her burning gaze on him.

He stripped down to bare skin and eased between the covers. Only then did he look back at Miranda, stretching out a hand in invitation. She slipped off her dressing gown, letting it fall to the ground. She slowly lifted her nightgown before tugging it over her head. It too, fell to the ground. His hand dropped to the bed and he ceased to breathe as she stepped forward into the moonlight cast by the window.

Miranda stood there, confident and strong, but he could see the nerves hiding behind her mask. He turned down the covers, “I have once again lost my wit to your beauty, darling, please. Join me?”

She slid under the covers next to him. Thomas laid there, propped up on an elbow, and looked at her. It occurred to him that she may have wanted to kiss, to talk, to be together in a less carnal sense for longer before leaping into bed. That she hadn’t meant for them to progress to this, not this fast, that had been quite the leap of logic on his part. His fear fell silent when she slid closer to him and placed a hand on his arm.

“I spent most of dinner thinking about our conversation earlier,” he murmured, because he wanted her to know he understood her, understood what she wanted for them, “I’m sure you noticed my distraction. I now realize that we have both been striving for something our parents were never going to award us with. Our efforts are better spent choosing to find love, true love, than trying to please people who will never deign to be so.”

She looked him, her hand a comforting weight.

“We couldn’t choose our parents, but we can choose this. Choose each other,” he said.

“Choose each other,” she murmured, “you make it sound simple and life changing simultaneously.”

“It is both, when you think about it. Everything about you is life changing, my love, in all the best ways. I can only hope we’ll be blessed enough to experience more life changing choices together.”

“Careful Thomas, that could be a curse as well as a blessing,” the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk, “how does it go, “may you live in interesting times’?”

She was mere inches away now, they had never been this close, just looking at each other, that he could remember. He admired the brown of her eyes, the beginning of smile lines around them, the graceful slope of her bone structure, her soft mouth. Her hand moved to cup his face. He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to her palm. Miranda must have realized he wouldn’t, couldn’t, be the one to make the next move because she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He curled a hand around the back of her neck, encouraged by the small sound of appreciation that escaped her. She pressed her smaller body to his, their legs entwining under the covers.

“Miranda,” he whispered, and then he wrapped his arms around her, tugging her closer, and crushing their mouths together. He fell back, panting. Her hand found his face again, the pads of her fingers caressing.

“I love you,” she said and he surged back up to kiss her, hard and passionate.

In the end, Thomas’ wish for similar life-changing choices in their future was both a blessing and a curse. But when those choices were inextricably linked to James and his place in their lives - he couldn’t bring himself to regret a single one. Anything that brought them James, that let them keep him, was worth it.

* * *

The sun was hot on his back and the morning song of the local birds was just audible over Miranda’s snoring. This told him several things of varying importance: they’d forgotten to close the windows and draw the curtains before bed and James wasn’t there with them. If James had been there, he’d have gotten up and closed the windows as soon as the first beam of light seeped through, grumbling and cursing the entire time. 

As he lay there, he could make out an uptick in the noise filtering in from the windows. It was more than the average morning routine would generate, he could hear people calling out to each other. One of the bells in the fort started ringing and he counted the tolls. One. Two. A pause. Three.

A friendly ship was approaching the bay.

There was only one, that he knew of, that had been out at sea.

He turned his head to find Miranda sleeping next to him. The sheet had slipped low, revealing her smooth and freckled back. She was as beautiful this morning as she had been the first morning he'd had the privilege of waking in the same bed as her. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning over to press a kiss to her shoulder blade, feathering kisses there and up the slope of her shoulder to her neck and jaw.

"Thomas," she murmured.

"Good morning, my darling."

Her eyes fluttered open and looked towards him. It was hard to see them through the tangled brown hair falling in her face. He reached over and brushed the hair away from her face and over her shoulder. She looked groggy and sleep-tousled and he could feel his mouth turning up in a fond smile. He could spot the moment the open windows and the sounds they were allowing in registered for her.

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "James?"

"The bells just rang."

"Christ Almighty," she said, sitting bolt upright, one of her hands reaching to grasp his shoulder. The sheet fell to pool around her waist and Thomas couldn't stop himself from looking . . . appreciatively.

"Thomas."

"Ah, yes?"

"Why didn't you wake me _sooner_?"

"I woke you as soon as I understood what the bells meant. Considering my usual coherence in the mornings, I think the fact I heard them at all is impressive."

"That's fair," she said, before falling back to rest against him. He shifted to curl his arm around her. "Should we meet him at the beach? Or do you think he'd prefer to come to us."

"Doesn't matter," he said, "I must admit that I don't have the patience to wait for him here."

She rubbed her eyes and sat up at a more sedate, natural pace this time. "We should get dressed then."

"As you wish," he murmured. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with the promise of reuniting with James. She was beautiful in the morning light. How old had he been with he had first noticed that? It felt like he'd been in love with her his whole life, but he knew that couldn't be true. They'd been playmates since they were small, and yet he couldn't remember what it had been like to look at her as a platonic friend.

She picked up his wrist, tugging until he took the hint and sat up as well. She brushed her lips against the inside of his wrist. Something warm twisted in his middle, and his eyes flicked to hers.

"We really don't have time," he said.

"I know," she murmured and leaned over to kiss him. It was warm but brief and she had pulled away before he could truly sink into it. "Come on," she said, rising from the bed and using her grip on his wrist to tug him with her, "let's get dressed and go meet our lover."

He placed a hand on the back of her neck, "I love you."

"As I love you," she said, and her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it. "We will both feel better once we see James, alive and well."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, thankful beyond words. She had always had an uncanny ability to read him and know what he needed. And at this moment in time, it was to have both her and James in his arms. Her easy acceptance settled him, as if the ground that had been shaking and crumbling beneath him had gone still and solidified. He could stand a bit taller thanks to her.

"What would I do without you?"

"You'll never have to find out," she said and she reached up to cradle his cheek, "let's go find James."

"Let's," he agreed, pressing one last kiss to her lips.

* * *

Jack had already begun assigning tasks to the crew when Charles arrived. He could pick out that voice from across the ship, because he'd memorized it — the cadence he spoke with, the emphasis he put on certain sounds, the biting sarcasm that often underscored it.

He strolled closer and took up a resting position behind Jack and pretended to only then notice that everyone's eyes were on him. "Don't mind me," he said, quietly. He let his tone communicate the threat the innocuous words couldn't on their own. Jack didn't turn to look at him but Charles knew he had rolled his eyes. He smirked.

"Actually," Jack said, "we're done. If they weren't listening or missed hearing their assignment, it's their neck on the line." The men shuffled on their feet unsurely, and Charles was at once amused and disgruntled to see them shooting him and Flint uneasy looks. He was used to intimidating other pirates, he wasn't used to sharing honor that with another. At least, not away from Nassau.

"Dismissed," Flint growled.

The men scattered. In moments, Jack, Flint, Gates, Anne, and Charles were the only ones left on the upper deck. Flint nodded to them and pulled out the now-familiar captain's logbook.

"According to what we've put together of the Urca's schedule, we have a limited window to resupply. We have just enough time to offload the injured and to resupply both the Walrus and the Ranger. But, I don't believe we can spend the night here without risking missing our opportunity —" he flipped through the book and pointed at one of the entries "if the ship is on schedule, we must leave today."

Gates frowned and leaned forward to skim the section. "It'll be tight but I think we can manage to set sail by dusk."

"Agreed. I need to speak retrieve Silver and check-in with Eleanor so I was thinking you and Jack could handle the supplies and ensure the wounded all get their payout and are properly settled." He shut the book and tucked it back into his jacket. "We need enough food for a week's travel, both ways, and twice that amount of water. If something happens we can go longer without food than—"

"Wait," Jack said. He crossed his arms over his chest and Charles shifted closer to his side. "You want double water rations?"

Every head swiveled in Jack's direction and Charles let a hand fall to rest on the hilt of his sword. He didn't really expect to need it in their current company, but some habits didn't die quickly. Too often, people who looked at Jack with that level of incredulity ended up needing to be warned off with Charles' steel. "Trust me," Flint said, "if it comes down to it, water is a lot more essential than food. A man can go three weeks or so without food but not more than a couple of days without water—"

"Speaking from experience, are you?" Jack asked.

There was a beat before Flint answered, and whatever warning there was in that pause, Jack either didn't understand or ignored. "Yes," Flint said, "I am speaking from experience. It's a story I do _not owe you_."

Jack finally seemed to realize he'd inadvertently hit a sore spot and he went pale and held up his hands in surrender. An ominous silence fell as they all waited to see if their recent partnership would win out over Flint's temper. Charles surveyed the group, oddly calm himself. Anne's astonished frown was aimed at Jack and Gates was looking at them all in open horror, like he was watching someone walk off a cliff while looking at the sky above. "I apologize," Jack said. Flint hadn't so much as twitched, instead just watching Jack. "I will personally ensure that we have sufficient water."

After another pause, Flint nodded and resumed listing the supplies and the amounts that would need to be procured. Charles kept his gaze on Jack for the rest of the discussion, wary of another ill-advised comment from his corner. But Jack stayed quiet, he must have realized how thin the ice he'd been walking on before was.

"And what about them?" Charles asked once Flint had finished speaking, he jerked his chin at the cluster of rescued slaves. Eleanor's Mr. Scott caught the look but remained where he was.

"Ah, yes," Flint said, "I thought you might want to be the one to see them safely to shore and to Eleanor. I wager she could be convinced to give them honest work with reasonable wages."

Charles frowned but nodded. He was reluctant to ask Eleanor for anything but he was also loathe to trust anyone else to ensure the rescued men and women were treated fairly.

"Oi, the last group of longboats are about ready to set off," Billy said, walking over from where he'd been overseeing the crew, "are you all going to shore or not?"

And just like that, the meeting was over and everyone was dispersing. Jack was laughing about something, and the sound of his usually pleasant voice was grating. Anne shook her head but kept pace with Jack and Gates as they headed towards one of the boats. Charles continued to linger there. He noted the glances that were shot at him as the others moved away but he ignored them. Flint started to go as well, sighed, and returned to stand next to Charles.

"I can ask someone else," he said, "honestly, Mr.Scott could probably convince her to take them on by himself."

"No."

"You have every right to choose to be involved or not to be."

"No, I'll see them to Eleanor's."

"Good, I figured you would want to see to that to yourself. However, I regret putting you on the spot."

"Stop being nice, you're making me uncomfortable."

Flint folded his hands behind his back and turned to him, "Thank God."

"Save it for your Barlows," Charles said with a chuckle, "speaking of, shouldn't you be going to see them?"

"Aye, but they would want me to make sure my partner was okay first. Consider it repayment for watching my back on the Andromache."

"You think this is commensurate?"

"No," Flint said, clapping him on the shoulder, "but it's a start. Now, _are_ you okay?"

Charles jerked his chin in a curt nod, "Get going, time is short. Don't waste another moment dithering over me."

"I do not 'dither'," Flint growled but Charles knew him well enough to spot the humor under the feigned anger. He gave Charles one last searching look, nodded, and strode over to where the longboats were being boarded.

He shut his eyes and stood there in silence. He listened to the sound of the waves until it drowned out the sound of whips cracking, voices shouting, and children crying out. Then, he straightened and strode over to stand with Mr. Scott.

"How many are there in total and what skills do they have?" He asked.

Mr. Scott looked at him, and Charles grit his teeth as his eyes fell to focus on his brand. He refused to acknowledge it and waited for Mr. Scott to meet his gaze again.

"Forty in total," he said, "the men were bound for the fields and their skills lie in that area. The women were to be house slaves."

Charles nodded, "good. Will you approach Eleanor with me? She's most likely to have work for them and we can trust her to treat them well."

"Eleanor and I . . . did not part on good terms." he said, "but, I believe she will agree that she owes me her help in this. I will go with you."

He was really not looking forward to this conversation.

* * *

James felt the bed dip beside him and blinked awake. "Fuck," he rasped, "Oh fuck, shit, I didn't mean — fuck it all. Sorry." He dropped his face back into the pillow. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen asleep in the middle of the day.

"Hush," Thomas said. A warm hand found his back and rested there. "You've only slept for an hour, you dozed off while Miranda was treating your wounds. She's gone to let Eleanor know she should come here if you two need to speak. You keep resting."

James turned his head and squinted at him. Between blinks, he remembered. He had found Thomas and Miranda on the beach, they had dragged him home, and instead of talking they'd been kissing. Thomas' kisses had been fierce and passionate and hungry and Miranda's had been soft and warm and sweet — or they had been until James had flinched back with a pained groan and they'd realized he was hiding injuries under his clothes. The kissing had ended rather quickly then as they'd ganged up on him and insisted on taking care of his injuries. "Tell me I didn't fall asleep in your lap," he said, and Thomas smiled. Christ, he was beautiful, his smile never failed to make James pause and appreciate its brilliance.

"I didn't mind," Thomas said. "You're exhausted and injured and I enjoyed cuddling you for a bit. I wouldn't have left you at all if Miranda hadn't needed my help cleaning up. Any chance you're staying the night?"

"Unfortunately, no," James murmured, crawling out from under the blankets and rolling to place his head on Thomas' lap and resting there. Thomas' fingers began weaving through his hair. He'd always had long and elegant fingers. James had often thought he'd make a fine pianist and he blamed himself that instead those once soft hands were now calloused and worn from hard living. Thomas's thumb drifted down to stroke his forehead.

"Stop frowning," Thomas said. "Are you sure you can't afford to stay one night?"

"I wish it was possible. But we need to catch the tide this evening or we'll risk missing our window. And, the sooner we set out the sooner we will return."

"What happens then? When you return with all that gold?"

James tried to put his thoughts and plans in order. But his brains felt fogged and his limbs were heavy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so exhausted. "Fortify defenses. Train the crews into a single fighting force. Pray we're ready when civilization arrives on our shore."

"That's what Nassau will do, what will _you_ do James? We haven't talked about that."

"I used to think I'd have to take a hands-on approach and bully the other crews and their captains into shape," he said, turning to nudge his head against Thomas' hand when it stilled. Thomas's fingers resumed their path through his hair. "But thanks to this new alliance with Charles and Eleanor, I think I'll actually be able to take a step back. Stay here in Nassau more, give the captains someone to report to here that's not Eleanor. Most of the Captains know how to defend their ship on the sea, none of them have much experience defending a port. I think I'll be more useful training the men and whipping them into a cohesive unit."

"You want to be their general."

"It'd be nice to be home more," he murmured. His eyes were drifting shut again. Thomas kept stroking his hair. The rhythm of it lulled him into further boneless relaxation.

"That would be nice."

"Mmm. Think you and Miranda could tolerate having me around more?"

"I think we'll cope. Maybe you'll finally have time to build some new bookshelves and Miranda was talking about how she'd like some planter boxes for the porch."

"Bookshelves and planters. I can do that. If we're lucky, I'll build one that won't collapse on top of Charles."

Thomas gave a low laugh, "I'm sure he would appreciate that."

He stretched and yawned, wincing as the motion pulled on his various cuts and bruises. Thomas' face came into better focus above him. Fuck, he'd missed him. It had only been a little over a day but it had felt like a lifetime. And he was about to leave again. "I wish I could stay here," he said mournfully.

"As do I. But you were right before, I'm afraid, the sooner you catch the Urca the sooner you can return. Something I'm very much looking forward to if it truly means you'll be home more."

"I can't make any promises, but that is certainly my goal."

"James, I didn't mean —"

"I know," James said, reaching for the hand in his hair and pulling it to his face. "I know, love," he murmured and kissed Thomas' palm, nuzzling there. And he did know. He knew that Thomas wasn't doubting him, that he hadn't been implying James wouldn't do his best to be home more often. He also knew that Thomas wouldn't truly believe it until he saw it, until James actually managed the impressive feat of living a mostly landlocked lifestyle. It would be odd at first, not having the deck move beneath his feet more days than not. But it would be worth it.

"I don't remember if I said it before, but in case I didn't, I'm sorry for falling asleep."

"You did," Thomas said, and he bent to press a kiss to his forehead, "and I'm not. If anything, I wish you had the time to rest for longer."

_God, I love you so fucking much_ beat in his chest, with all the force and rumble of thunder, and he pressed Thomas' hand to his mouth again, pressing a lingering kiss there.

"No peace for the wicked," James said. "Even after, I suspect I'll merely be kept busy with new crises. Not less."

"Ah," Thomas said. "That's, that's likely, to be honest."

James huffed a laugh which ended in a yawn and he stretched again.

"Hmm," Thomas said, studying him. "I'm tempted to tie you to this bed until you're better rested. And, perhaps, for other things." His hand slid from where James was still cradling it to rest on his chest. It slid inside his shirt and he shivered at the cool touch. James was still wearing all his clothes because he was the arse who had fallen asleep on his lovers after only having taken off his boots and jacket. It might be for the best — if he was laying in the bed bare it would be too tempting to get lost in those 'other things.' He was halfway to deciding to strip his clothes and indulge anyway, damn the consequences, when he heard the sound of a door opening.

"Thomas? James? Are you both awake and decent?"

He shut his eyes and Thomas' hand stopped its downward path.

"Yes, Miranda," Thomas called, "we'll be down post-haste."

"Of all the cursed luck," James muttered, soft enough that he hoped Thomas wouldn't hear.

But Thomas was looking at him like he'd heard it anyway. There was something in his gaze — that was familiar. It was how he often looked when James' iron control slipped and he did or said something childish. He caught Thomas' hand and pressed one last kiss to his palm. It struck him then, that what he was saying through that kiss, Thomas was answering with this look. They'd both said the words countless times, but James was always surprised by how many other ways they found to communicate the sentiment over the years. He twined their fingers together and gave Thomas' hand a squeeze that was returned. And they rested there, watching each other. James smirked.

"How long do you think we can linger before Miranda comes up after us?"

Thomas laughed, and the sound was all the victory James had ever wanted, all he would ever need. Thomas' laughter and Miranda's smirks. Their love. He struggled out of the blankets and sat up, moving close enough to lean their foreheads together.

He heard the hitch in Thomas' breathing, "what are you—"

"Yes," Miranda said from behind them, "what are you two doing?"

"Goddamnit," James growled with no real heat as Thomas laughed. He reached his arm out, curling two fingers in a beckoning gesture when Miranda hesitated. When she'd given in and clasped his hand he quickly used the grip to pull her down onto the bed with them. She landed heavily in his arms and he wrapped his arms tightly around both her and Thomas. He held on, and on, and on. He never wanted to let go.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Its probably going to be the longest yet for this fic.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the chapter that never wanted to end, I kept thinking of new things I wanted to address somehow. Hopefully, it wraps everything up!

* * *

Before they began, he knew he would have to call on every ounce of patience he possessed to get through the conversation.

He’d found Eleanor, Charles, and Silver waiting on the first floor where Miranda had left them. Eleanor was there to be reassured that they could still succeed with the Scarborough out there circling and she’d had the foresight to rescue Silver from Max’s clutches on her way. He knew why she was there, why Silver was there, and he had a guess about Charles. This knowledge didn’t mean he couldn’t feel a headache forming or that he didn’t wish he could go back to bed with Thomas and Miranda.

Thomas was sorting through the books he’d stacked off to the side but, based on the glances he kept shooting James, it was only to hide his eavesdropping. Miranda wasn’t even bothering to pretend to do anything else, sitting in an armchair and watching them.

“How the hell did the Scarborough manage to find you out there?”

“Not sure,” James said, “Bryson tipped them off somehow. We’ll be careful to avoid them on our way out.”

“Fine. You’ve got the guns and the ships are being loaded with supplies as we speak,” Eleanor said, “is there anything else you need?”

“No,” he said tersely.

“Are you sure? I could probably get you more gunpowder or rum or—"

“Eleanor. More supplies aren’t what will make the difference now. Strategy is.”

“Then what is your plan? Even with the Ranger, isn’t taking the Urca still nigh on impossible?”

“Bit late to be bringing that worry up,” Charles observed.

“I’ve got a plan,” James said, “we’ll reassess once Mr. Silver coughs up the rest of the schedule and we’re on our final approach. Trust me, Eleanor.”

“You’ve trusted him, us, this far.” Charles pointed out, “we’ll be back with that gold before you know it.”

“My plan can be adjusted as needed,” James said, “I’ll admit it relies in part on the Urca’s Captain’s ignorance but I’ve been in enough naval skirmishes to feel comfortable making that assumption. A treasure ship like that won’t know these waters, the routes, or who’s likely to be sailing them. It makes them vulnerable to misdirection.”

“Misdirection?” Eleanor said, and the disbelief coloring her tone grated. “You plan to trick them?”

James ignored the way her voice got higher as she talked, the layers of her incredulity increasing. “That’s part of it, yes. Trust me, Eleanor.”

“I do, Lord knows why, but I do trust you,” she said and sighed and rubbed her temples. “Well, if you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll leave Silver with you. My work never ends and I don’t have time to waste.”

Silver cleared his throat then, and Eleanor glanced at him, her expression growing cold.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” she said, “I’m not sure how up-to-date you are on current events. Suffice it to say, this place went to hell in a handbasket while you were gone. Mr. Silver, along with Max, was indispensable in setting it to rights.”

“Was he.”

“Indeed. He and I made a deal, his help for my protection. If he were to . . . fail to return from chasing the Urca, we may find ourselves on bad terms, Captain Flint.”

“I see,” he said, “what a day I missed.”

Eleanor offered him a shrug and rueful smile, “Good luck on your ventures, gentlemen. Miranda.”

He strove to hide his relief, nodding a farewell, as she made good on her earlier words and departed.

“I feel a bit like cattle being traded,” Silver said into the silence.

“How hard for you,” Charles drawled and James took a sadistic pleasure in watching Silver inch away. Having Charles around certainly had its perks.

“Captain Flint,” Silver said, and he was reminded that one of the downsides was people appealing to him to be the more reasonable one, “surely it’s past time to remove my shackles? Unless you want the men to realize something is afoot.”

“Fine,” he said and he caught Charles’ gaze and fished the keys out of his pocket. Charles caught them with ease and paused to look between the keys and Silver.

“Sure we can’t kill him and take our chances? Eleanor wouldn’t be _that_ upset,” Charles asked.

“Not in our home, you won’t,” Miranda said and Charles huffed but moved to unlock the shackles.

“As the lady wishes.”

Silver grinned, rubbing his freed wrists, “Ah, that’s much better.”

“Put a single toe out of line,” James growled, “and shackles will be the least of your worries. I’ll get back to you in a moment, try and stay silent, if you can manage that feat.” He looked to Charles but kept a portion of his attention on Silver. “Did you and Mr. Scott get everything squared away?”

“For the most part,” he said, “Eleanor was able to either employ them herself at the tavern or with her consortium. If both of those options fail, she gave me word she’d connect them with another merchant in town that can be trusted.”

“And Mr. Scott?”

Charles smirked, rocking back and forth on his heels, dripping smugness, “I convinced him to join my crew.”

That caught Thomas’ attention and he dropped any pretense of doing work. He moved to stand next to Miranda’s chair, a path that meant he passed behind where James stood, his hand brushing his shoulders as he did. “That’s an interesting choice,” he commented and clasped the hand Miranda offered him.

Charles shrugged but his smugness lingered, “Jack won’t be content being my quartermaster for much longer and Anne will go wherever he does.”

“This is why you were interested in Billy,” James observed, “and why you stole Mr. Scott. You’re looking for a suitable replacement.”

“Interesting,” Thomas repeated and James could feel the weight of his gaze. It chafed a bit, the distant calculation behind it, the way Thomas sometimes looked at events and people like a chessboard to be examined and strategically arranged. He knew Thomas was thinking of their earlier conversation, and likely coming to the same conclusion James had. If he was increasingly landlocked as they worked to fortify Nassau, that would leave his men and the Walrus bereft of a full-time Captain.

He’d gnaw off his own leg before he allowed Jack Rackham to captain the Walrus. Perhaps, he could convince Charles to leave the Ranger to Jack and then he’d be able —

“Stop,” Charles said, “I know that look. Stop plotting, we’ve got enough nonsense to be getting on with.”

James nodded grudgingly, he’d table the thought for now. “Would you escort Mr. Silver to the Walrus? Billy will get him settled and keep an eye on him.”

“Yeah,” Charles grunted, “you better not be far behind. We’ll never hear the end of it if we miss the tide.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Charles grabbed Silver‘s arm and James was only mildly ashamed at the pleasure he took in the whelp’s outrage at being manhandled from the shop.

“I can walk on my own.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“Well, no, but—"

“Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, and focused on his breathing as he listened to Charles drag Silver from the building. Their bickering voices gradually moved away. His shoulders relaxed and a set of hands found purchase there and began to massage. Hands that had previously been nowhere near him.

He opened his eyes and found Miranda standing in front of him. Which meant the hands belonged to Thomas. This was the hardest part of having to travel more often than not, it wasn’t the time away that bothered him the most, it was the act of leaving. It was the goodbyes. While he was away — he could look forward to returning home. Leaving in the first place was like ripping himself into pieces and leaving the most important bits behind.

Miranda prodded his shoulder, startling him into looking at her instead of through her. She arched a brow and he stared.

“Do you remember what you said the other night?”

James frowned, “you’d have to be more specific,” he said, trying to guess what she could be referring to.

“You said you’d do anything I ask to make me comfortable with your leaving to chase the Urca.”

He swallowed, trying to focus on what she was saying rather than the warm hands that had moved lower on his back. “I remember,” he managed.

“I’ve decided on my request,” Miranda said, smiling up at him. “Take Thomas with you.”

James blinked at her. “He’s more than formidable with a blade,“ she continued, “and while he lacks sailing skills, he’ll watch your back like no other.”

The hands disappeared and James straightened up and out of the relaxed slouch he’d fallen into, “What —“

Thomas circled around to stand next to Miranda, his gaze finding James’: anxious and beseeching and intense. “I won't get in the way, I swear. I remember my way about a ship and know better than to interfere with the crew’s duties. It’s not that we don’t trust Hal and Billy, but we’ve talked, and we’d both feel better about it if I go with you. I’ll follow your orders,” Thomas said, “as long as it’s nothing stupidly, suicidally, noble.”

He had no idea what to say to that. Where to start explaining to them what he’d thought was readily apparent. Thomas and Miranda thought, somehow, that they had to negotiate his agreement. That they needed to wheedle and coax him into agreeing. Nothing was further from the truth. He’d never been able to deny either of them anything they sincerely asked for. He gave orders and made sweeping statements all the time and they didn’t pay it much mind. They rarely asked him for anything and when they did he always said yes. And yet, they somehow thought this case would be different. He blamed their parents for it, the years they’d spent learning the hard way that not all love is unconditional or generous.

“A pirate ship is a different beast than the merchant vessel that brought us over,” he said, “a dangerous one.”

“I. . . I know,” Thomas said, his eyes dropping to the floor. Miranda shifted and James caught her eye. He shook his head and she stilled.

“It will be a tense journey there and a slow journey back,” he continued, careful to keep his voice neutral, “there will be a decent amount of downtime.”

Thomas was nodding, his brows furrowed. Judging by the burgeoning smirk on Miranda’s face — she had guessed what he was up to.

“If I say yes, I would require your cooperation for a few things.”

“Anything,” Thomas said faintly.

“My cabin has a decent amount of open space, more if we move some of the bookshelves.”

“I . . . yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s been a while since I saw it. I don’t understand, James. Are you asking me to help you rearrange furniture?”

“No,” James said, “that’s what I have a crew for. I’m merely pointing out that we would have space to move around. During that downtime I mentioned.”

Thomas stared at him, frowning. “What, James, are you. . .”

“Downtime,” James repeated, “that will allow us to spar, to ensure your sword skills haven’t gotten rusty. Naturally, it will get warm shut away in the cabin. I rather think shirts won’t be necessary during. And even less so, afterward.”

“You are shameless,” Thomas croaked.

“Regretting ridding me of it?” he asked and he crossed his arms over his chest, letting his smirk turn into a smile. He saw the moment Thomas noticed the difference, saw his answering smile, watched as the anxiousness that had been lining his face eased away. He didn’t see, but rather heard, Miranda snicker at them.

“Never,” Thomas murmured and stepped close, crowding James back against the wall. “And what happens after we spar. When we’re shirtless, hot, and sweaty?”

James chuckled, his hands finding and settling on Thomas’ waist. “I think you know.”

“I’m beginning to think I should insist on coming along as well,” Miranda said, appearing beside them. They turned as one, folding her into the loose embrace.

Standing this close, departure imminent, made something in James’ chest ache. Thomas would be coming along, and that eased it somewhat, but leaving Miranda behind and alone tore at him. He was leading Thomas into danger and leaving Miranda exposed to all kinds of things. Nassau was unpredictable at the best of times. Chances were, she’d be perfectly safe but all it took was one pirate getting it in his head to do something stupid . . .

He tugged them close, sighing when they leaned into him, a head resting on a shoulder each.

“I’ll ask Eleanor if she can spare a man or two for my protection,” Miranda whispered, “she owes me a favor. I’ll be alright, you two just worry about returning to me safely.”

James shut his eyes, pressing a hard kiss to the top of her head. A hand found the back of his neck, a thumb stroking there.

“You know,” Thomas said, his voice light and airy, “if you get your sparring sessions, and what comes after, I think I should get something as well.”

“You mean other than getting to come along?”

“Hmm yes, indeed. My muscles will be rather sore after all that . . . Activity. I think, a long massage would be just the thing.”

“A massage?” He sighed, attempting to sound aggrieved, but knowing his lovers would know better. “That can be arranged.”

He tightened his grip on them, wishing he could preserve this moment. His body felt light and filled with warmth, and he couldn’t seem to tuck his smile away. He would have to, they would have to, leave soon. Their immediate future was fraught with peril. Standing here, wasn’t solving or helping anything. But he stood here, regardless, soothing and being soothed. There was reason to believe that they may never all three be reunited again. There was every reason to believe he could die in this venture, that Thomas could, that something unforeseen could happen to Nassau and Miranda while they were gone. There was every reason to believe those things. And yet, James had faith that they would reunite. That they would all survive.

He had to believe that. Miranda had once accused him of being so stubborn he would try to bend reality to suit his will. He had every intention of doing just that.

“You need to get going,” Miranda said.

“One moment more,” he said, “I love you both, more than anything, you know that?”

“James,” she said, “my darling. Of course, we know.”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Thomas said, “we know.”

He nodded, his eyes shut and his throat tight. Miranda burrowed closer to his chest and Thomas’ thumb stroked his neck with more pressure until he tilted his head towards him without opening his eyes. Thomas obliged him with a kiss, all too brief but nonetheless reassuring.

They would survive this. James would accept no other outcome.

* * *

“I don’t actually have words for how revolting that is,” Flint said, pushing away the bowl of leftover ham mixed with vegetables and broth into something that could generously be called a stew. “You can’t feed that to the men.”

“Really?” John asked, picking up the bowl and giving it an experimental sniff. “It smells okay.”

“You shit,” Flint said, “you gave that to me without tasting it first?”

“Ah. Well, I don’t eat pork.”

Flint snorted, and snagged an apple from the barrel. He took a bite, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They were in the belly of the ship, and for the moment they had the small kitchen area to themselves. John was supposed to be preparing supper while Randal rested and Flint was supposed to be checking their supplies. In truth, he was ensuring John didn’t give the crew food poisoning. It was the most relaxed John had ever seen him — he looked the same as always, his hair tied out of his face, and his clothes the simple and practical garb most pirates favored. He’d left his leather jacket somewhere but his heavy rings were present and accounted for on his fingers. He probably had a chest somewhere, filled with stolen jewelry and other treasures. How many, he wondered, did he keep and how many did he give to his lovers? They didn’t seem to share his liking for gaudy jewelry. Maybe Flint didn’t care for it either, maybe it was just another piece of his mask.

“What’re you smirking about?” Flint said with a glare, setting his apple down with a thump.

“Oh, nothing. Just an idle thought. What was wrong with it?” He gestured at the bowl and Flint followed his gaze, his face displaying the same calm impassivity it had been this whole time, and then turned back to him.

“You added too much salt. You were supposed to add the ingredients to vegetable broth. It tastes like you used saltwater straight from the ocean instead.”

John glanced nervously at the pot. He folded his hands on the table, resisting the urge to fidget. “The broth tasted too bland,” he said.

“So you added more salt.”

“Very possibly.”

“Did you taste it again before mixing everything?”

“Uh — you know, I didn’t think — I may have — exaggerated my ability in the kitchen. Just a little? And uh — yeah I’m going to stop talking now.”

Flint’s soft snort of a laugh was disconcerting to listen to. It occurred to him then, that the man sitting here with him may not be wholly Captain Flint. Perhaps, this was a glimpse of the man the Barlow couple called James. He knew better than to think it was any more than that, Flint would not let his guard down so entirely around him of all people. He was a bit puzzled he’d allowed even this much. It could be a show of trust, or it could be a trick of some kind. A manipulation to get John onto his side.

“Fortunately,” Flint said, getting to his feet. He turned towards the stairs, “it’s an easy enough fix. Drain off half of the broth and replace it with water. It’ll be bland and watered down but it won’t make anyone sick.”

John watched him begin to climb the stairs and almost bit back the comment he’d been itching to make. Almost.

“You’re in a strangely good mood. Is it because your better half joined us? Is it better half? Better third?”

Flint stopped, turning back enough to meet John stare for stare. For a moment, they stood there in tense silence. Just looking.

“If you have enough time to be wondering about my personal life,” Flint said, his voice quiet but no less dangerous for it, “I can have Billy find more work for you. Grueling work that will leave you too tired to stand let alone think about things that do not concern you.”

"Ah no, no that's okay," John said, "no, cooking will be more than enough."

Flint lingered a moment more, his expression unreadable. After what felt like a lifetime, he nodded and continued up the stairs.

He watched him disappear, the tension in his shoulders easing more the farther away he got. It had been interesting to see this side of the captain but it wasn't good for his heart rate.

* * *

“Let’s go again,” Thomas said, wiping his brow with his discarded shirt. “I think I’m getting the hang of doing this on a ship.”

James was standing over his desk, watching his pen rolling back and forth across it with the rocking of the ocean. The storm they’d been tracking was getting closer. He shook his head without turning around, “that’s enough,” he said, “any longer and I won’t be able to move my hands and give you a massage.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re just scared I’ll disarm you this time. I almost had you.”

“That’s not it,” James said with a frown. “Besides. You’ve disarmed me before.”

“James? Is something the matter?”

James shrugged, aware that his tone had been harsher than he intended, but also aware that Thomas had understood he wasn’t the cause or the target. “Alright, one last round,” he said resignedly, picking up his sword. He turned back around, twirling it in a circle and getting into his stance while Thomas watched — eyes wide.

“Ah, is there any point in asking what topic you’re avoiding?”

“You could ask.”

“But you wouldn’t answer. You will tell me when it becomes relevant.”

“If it becomes relevant,” James said, tossing his sword from hand to hand and rolling his shoulders to limber back up. Sparring in his cabin had been a daily routine since they’d set sail a week ago, one James had quickly come to rely on for his continuing sanity. The first day’s spar had been short — Thomas had tired quickly and they’d both been looking forward to what would come after more than enjoying the spar for the sake of it. The second day they’d sparred for almost an hour before James called it to a halt. Thomas had stood there, panting, with an odd smile on his face. One James had recognized. It usually meant he was about to say something sappy and romantic like _you make me better_ before James met his gaze and he fell silent and kissed him instead.

James let Thomas make the first strike, and he breathed out in a huff, blocking and not backing up. They stared at each other, separated by inches and steel. Thomas didn’t back down either. For all his softness, he had a hidden core of unbeatable strength. It was what made their spars a pleasure. Every inch was fought for, every blow challenged. “Good, keep your eyes on me,” he said, disengaging and tapping Thomas’ ribs with the blunt side of the blade, “my sword is an extension of me, but it’s the last part to move.”

“I know. But it’s hard to—“ He spun below James’ next blow with impressive balance, “— not watch a blade coming towards you.”

“You’re just out of practice,” James temporized.

Thomas lowered his sword and looked at James. “Yes, but,” he said, “I’m not sure it _is_ something I want to be practiced in. I don’t care for the implications.”

James gave that the thought it deserved, idly titling his sword. There wasn’t a simple answer. He’d spent the majority of his life in a position where keeping up with his sword skills was a matter of course. A matter of survival. A movement too late, a swing unblocked, was the difference between coming home alive and being laid to rest at the bottom of the sea. Sometimes he forgot that wasn’t true for everyone, for every lifestyle. “I know,” he said finally, “but until Nassau is more stable — being able to use that sword and use it well may be all that keeps you alive. I will do everything in my power to ensure you never need to use it. But one day, something will go wrong. I won’t be there or I won’t be in a state to defend you and Miranda. If that happens, and I pray it never does, you can die or you can live. I want to make sure you have the skills to do the latter.”

“I know,” Thomas echoed, reaching for the pitcher of water and pouring himself a cup. He took a long sip, wiped his mouth, and returned to the center of the room. He shook out his arms and got back into his stance. “I don’t like it, but I understand what you’re saying. I may regret asking, but how young were you? The first time you were forced to defend yourself with a sword?”

“It wasn’t with a sword, and I was twelve,” he said, “it was a knife and if it wasn’t for Hennessy I’d have taken a life for the first time that day too.”

“Twelve?”

James met Thomas in the center and they circled slowly, “Hennessy took me in when my grandfather passed, as you know. I spent most of my time around sailors and privateers. Looking back, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. The man was drunk and aiming to hurt Hennessy through me.”

“Would it have?” Thomas asked, his head tilted and his expression considering.

“The attempt did, the success would have as well,” he said and swatted Thomas on the shoulder: light and playful. “Let’s resume.”

This round went better, they were both more focused and Thomas’ reaction times improved as he succeeded in watching James for movement rather than the sword. They traded blows, dancing more than fighting. James allowed Thomas to advance and back him into the far wall — until now they’d stopped when someone was disarmed or when one of them called a halt. He was curious to see what Thomas would do once he was backed into the corner. Soon enough, his back was to the wall and the blunt side of a sword was pressing horizontally across his neck.

“And now?” Thomas asked, his words short and labored and his smile triumphant.

“Depends on whether your goal is to incapacitate or kill. A sharp blow to my temple with the hilt of your sword would knock me unconscious. I can teach you to do it safely. If you wanted me dead, you’d slit my throat.”

“Killing is a last resort for me.”

“I know. I’ll teach you the temple blow another day — it’s not a move to attempt when you’re already tired.”

“Sounds good. Not going to offer to teach me to slit a throat?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, not particularly.”

James became aware that neither of them had moved, not an inch. They were pressed together, sweaty and out of breath. He dropped his sword from his already lax grip and reached up to ease Thomas’ out of his hand. That too, he dropped to the floor.

“Thomas,” he said, wrapping his arms around him and turning the full-body pin into an embrace. Thomas didn’t resist, instead burrowing close and nudging his face against James’. The cabin was chilly, the damp and cold air that heralded the oncoming storm seeping in. He hardly noticed.

They didn’t do anything but stand there, arms wrapped around each other so tight that James could feel the tremors rippling through Thomas’ arms and back from the workout. Neither of them loosened their grip or let go. “I’m scared,” Thomas said. His voice was so quiet that James almost didn’t hear it over the creak of the ship. “I’m worried about this storm — and taking the Urca and — Christ, I’m so worried about Miranda.“

“It’s okay,” James said, “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s normal to feel that way. Everything will work out okay, I will make sure of it, so just, can we —“

He was barely aware of what he was saying, other than that it was the kind of nonsense comforting words he savored when offered to him. And that was okay, because it wasn’t the words themselves that mattered. It was the sound of them, the emotion layered in them, the soft whispers of breath and companionship and love. They could move to the bed tucked back in the corner, the window bench, or even to the desk. Instead, they stayed where they were: whispers changing to kisses, gentle and tentative. It was hands and mouths and quiet intimacy. For all the gentle tenderness, none of it was unsure. They were too tired to attempt anything complicated and so they struggled out of their pants, hardly parting in the process. They kept their eyes locked, their arms wrapped around each other, Thomas’ hand between them, wrapped around both their cocks as they found a slow relaxed rhythm.

“Have I mentioned,” Thomas whispered, “how attractive I find you when you’re on deck being all authoritative and inspiring?”

“You’re likely the only person who would.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

James dug his fingers into Thomas’ hair, bit at his lip, and thrust into his hand. “Are you close?” Thomas asked.

“I, Yes. . . are you?”

“I want to — can I — _please_,“

“Yes, come for me sweetheart,” James murmured and he felt Thomas writhe and tremor in his arms. Nothing felt better than this - than holding Thomas close and feeling every moment, and James followed him over the edge and shook and gasped. His orgasm was slow and rolling and all the more satisfying for it.

Afterward, Thomas leaned away long enough to rescue one of their discarded shirts from the floor and wiped his hand clean before tugging his pants back over his hips and then doing the same for James. He nudged his face against James’ again, trailing kisses down his jaw and neck. James shut his eyes, barely coherent enough to appreciate the gesture. The arms around him the only thing keeping him standing.

And then they were kissing again — with no intent this time, just slow pressing of their lips as they eased back to earth.

He had his hands around Thomas’ waist, his thumbs rubbing circles into warm and sweaty skin. Still without shirts. He rather thought the fact they were dressed at all was a feat. One he had to credit to Thomas. He had neither the desire nor the will to separate long enough to procure new shirts. “Christ,” he murmured and Thomas made a small sound of agreement. James slid one of his hands to Thomas’ neck, resting it there.

“Think your hands can stand to give me that massage?” Thomas murmured and James laughed.

“I didn’t do something right if that’s what your mind is on.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas said, “perhaps you did so well I’m hoping my massage will lead to round two.”

James pulled back, his forehead resting against Thomas’. Their eyes locked. “Darling—“ he said softly.

But he never got to finish his sentence as lightning flashed outside and a loud rumble of thunder followed. The cabin door shook as someone tried to open it and discovered it was barred.

“Captain, the storm will hit us in a couple of hours. It’s directly in our path. You asked me to inform you when it was close.”

He sighed and slid out of Thomas’ arms. He went to unbar the door while Thomas ambled over to his desk and leant there: shirtless, smug, and draining the last of James’ water jug.

And so, he wasn’t surprised when Billy stuttered to a stop once he got a good look at his face. He forced the scowl to recede and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Billy.” He said, voice even. “Signal the Ranger for Charles. And escort Mr. Silver to us. It’s past time for him to cough up the rest of the schedule. Oh, and send for more water and rum. Dinner at some point would be appreciated as well.”

* * *

For reasons he was unsure of, and didn’t care to be sure of, Charles’ sodden arrival to the cabin ushered in an odd cheerfulness to the tense meeting. The storm meant that the crew was busy battening down the hatches and securing supplies and Charles was loitering just inside the door, dripping rainwater. Flint and Gates were leaning over the maps, and Silver was alternating between obnoxious sarcastic remarks and trying to point out the route without getting his hand swatted away. Thomas was hovering around Charles, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to wrap him in blankets or push the mug of steaming tea on him first. It made Charles long to take the blanket and smother _him_ and see how he liked it — but Flint would undoubtedly take offense to that.

In the end, he did take the blanket, but only to throw it around his shoulders. Thomas smiled at him and offered him the mug. He knew, this time, that it was better to take the path of least resistance and accept it.

“Thanks,” he said, grudgingly.

Thomas nodded, a hand reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt. It did nothing to hide the marks lingering there and Charles hid a smirk behind his mug. At least someone was enjoying this journey.

At some point during their interaction, Silver had wandered over to the bookshelves and seemed to feel the need to narrate what he found, at the top of his voice.

“I had no idea you were such a connoisseur of books, Captain — I mean, unless Mr. Barlow travels with what looks like a quarter of his bookshop at all times. And, my God, why do you have both the English and Greek editions of, let’s see, Euripides’ Medea and Hippolytus, Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, and of course you have Plato’s Meno. Is that a first edition? You clearly have an obsession with Greek literature.”

“For someone with such scorn of books, you seem to recognize quite a few of them,” Flint pointed out. He was marking something down on the sea charts and hadn’t bothered to even glance at Silver.

“Finally, something from the last couple of centuries. Shakespeare . . . and of course, it’s a copy of Hamlet. Is it Hamlet or Claudius you relate to?”

“Is it a rule I have to relate to one to own the book,” Flint said, pointing something out to Gates and then straightening up to pin Silver with a stare.

Charles caught Thomas’ eye — he shrugged. The dynamic between Flint and Silver had shifted since he’d last seen them. There was a kind of . . . begrudged amusement to Flint’s expression and Silver was the more confident for having noticed it.

“No, uh, I suppose not,” Silver was saying, “but for argument's sake, which one? Or, oh, I have a better idea. Mr. Barlow, can I call you Thomas? Thomas — which one do you think fits him better?”

“Well . . .” Thomas said, “I mean . . . choosing between the villain and the hero is too narrow. . . That is . . . “ Charles watched with mounting amusement as Thomas glanced around the room and landed on Flint’s impassive face, “I always thought you were more similar to Fortinbras: out on a mission of righteous vengeance and answering dishonor with honor.”

“Good answer,” Flint said, but the rest of it was lost over Silver’s exultant cry. “Oh, is that The Odyssey? Well, this one’s easy. I don’t even need to ask which character you’re similar to.”

Charles fumbled for his belt knife, shrugging out of the blanket enough to throw it across the room. It embedded in the wooden shelf just beside Silver’s right ear.

“Enough,” he growled.

“Did you just — you threw a _knife_ at me, what the fuck. Where’s your keeper, you animal.”

“If you mean Jack, he’s busy babysitting the Ranger.”

“Right, well, still, what kind of person goes around throwing knives? You nearly hit me.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it _okay_.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, “I think that’s quite enough of that. Did you get the schedule put together, James?”

“Yes,” he said, beckoning Charles over, “come take a look. If our ships get separated in the storm we can rendezvous just south of here,” he pointed out the island the schedule said the Urca would be stopping at to refill its water supply.

Charles trailed a finger from where their current position was marked to the rendezvous point, “this time tomorrow we could be returning home, our ships weighed down with gold.”

Flint clapped him on the shoulder. “Hal, will you get the bearings to Billy? And have enough dinner for all of us sent up.”

The cheerful mood continued over dinner, and whatever tension that had developed between him and Silver after the knife incident seemed to have bled away. Gates told hard-to-believe stories about Henry Avery and stories they knew to be exaggerated about Teach Blackbeard, and several times Flint caught Charles’ gaze over the table long enough to share skeptical looks and fond smiles. It gave him a curious lightness in his chest. To think, the two of them had reached this point. Had moved past their rivalry to something he was beginning to label as ‘friendship.’

“This is delicious, Mr. Silver,” Thomas said, spearing a piece of chicken with his knife and eating it, “I admit I was wary, after what James said of your cooking skills . . .”

“Ah, I wish I could take the credit. But this was all Randal. He might have, uh, thrown pots and pans at me until I left him alone with the food.”

“Hal, remind me to give him an extra cut of the gold from my share,” Flint said.

“Aye, Captain.”

“Now that’s just hurtful. I can cook some things. Give me a loaf of bread, cheese, and a selection of cut meat and I can put together a delicious platter of sandwiches.”

“Would you like the bread pre-cut as well,” Charles said and sliced into one of the apples serving as their side dish.

Silver frowned at him and petulantly took a bite of his own apple, crunching it loudly.

“I’m not sure putting together sandwiches counts as cooking,” Thomas said, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“I am sure,” Flint said, “that you, my dear, don’t have a leg to stand on in this conversation. Remember Easter dinner — our first year here?”

“Maybe it’s time for dessert,” Gates cut in.

Charles shushed him, “No, I want to hear this.”

“We agreed to never speak of that meal,” Thomas said, “you and Miranda both agreed.”

“You decided that I don’t remember agreeing to it. Miranda had traveled into the interior to attend the church service they were holding,” Flint said, “I was busy whipping my new crew into shape and Thomas, well, he decided to surprise us both with a nice dinner.”

Thomas crossed his arms over his chest and leant back away from the desk. They’d cleared it of the maps and were using it as a makeshift table. “See if I ever try and do anything nice for you again.”

“What happened?” Silver asked when it became apparent that Flint and Thomas were more interested in their stare-down than in explaining.

Flint arched his brows and Thomas sighed. “The dinner portion was fine.”

“Yes, the chicken you got from the Tavern and cut up to go with salad was perfectly good. Tell them about the dessert.”

“It was a pie. Chocolate pie. It had seemed. . . simple enough. It probably would have been too, if I hadn’t misread the recipe.”

“Oh no,” Silver breathed.

“Oh yes,” Flint said.

“It said to use either lard or butter,” Thomas continued, “I, well, I thought it said lard _and_ butter.”

“It turned out so slick it slid right off of Miranda’s fork,” Flint said, leaning sideways to avoid the napkin Thomas lobbed at his face.

“In my defense,” Thomas said, “at least I didn’t almost burn the kitchen down.”

“Oh?” Silver visibly perked up, turning to shoot Flint a look, “you almost burned down the place?”

Flint huffed, “no, I for one, _can_ cook. I may be the only one at this table who can. No, that was _Miranda_.”

“I think nearly _burning_ us out of house and home tops my, uh, _slippery_ pie.”

“I’ll let you have that conversation with Miranda, I’ll shell out for a nice funeral and grave for you,” Flint said with a grin, and Thomas stole Charles’ napkin and tossed it at him. This time, Flint was too busy laughing to bother dodging. Charles watched as Gates hid a smile behind his hand, and Silver reached for the bottle of rum — Flint had a collection of them to rival Charles’ — and topped himself off before passing it around. Thomas got up from the table, his hand sliding across Flint’s shoulders in what Charles realized was a thoughtless, habitual gesture. It caused a strange twist in his gut. Had they had that easy intimacy from the beginning, or was it something they’d earned over the years of being together? He’d seen them both reach out to each other and to Miranda many times, and it was always casual and sure. Normal, everyday gestures of caring. He had never stayed with one person long enough to know what that felt like. It was odd that today, now, of all times — that bothered him.

The door the cabin swung open after a perfunctory knock. Billy stuck his head in, glancing around until his gaze met Charles’. He jerked his chin and Charles stood and made his way over to him.

“Mr. Bones,” he said once he’d followed Billy out onto the deck and shut the door behind him. “What is it?”

“The Ranger signaled for your return,” Billy shouted over the rain, “unless you plan to weather the storm here, you should make your way back. The water is getting rougher.”

Charles sighed and tilted his head up to look at the dark sky, the rain trickling down his face, through his hair, and drenching him for the second time in as many hours. “The Ranger. You mean Jack. He wants me back?”

“Yeah, it was him. Well, I think it was. Visibility is limited but unless someone else on your ship has his . . . taste in clothes, it was him. He’s right, you know. It won’t be safe to journey back if you wait much longer.”

“Unfortunately, he usually is.” He glanced back at the closed door, there was no way he could have heard anything from inside through the wood and over the storm - but he imagined he could hear the playful bickering and the smothered laughter that had permeated the meal. It was beginning to dawn on him why he’d felt off-kilter throughout. He’d thought he’d solved all his problems when he’d convinced Mr. Scott to join his crew. He’d be a worthy quartermaster.

But. Charles had forgotten that there was more he was losing, more to be replaced, than a position on his crew when Jack inevitably moved on and took his rightful captaincy. He _did_ know what it felt like to share casual intimacy with a person — it just applied to a platonic relationship rather than a romantic one. Jack’s shoes were impossible to fill in that regard.

He sighed and looked at Billy, who was watching him with a furrowed brow.

“Will you let your captain know I headed back?”

“Of course,” he said, “your boat is ready to go, Mr. DeGroot will see you off.”

He clapped Billy on the shoulder in thanks, carefully making his way across the slick deck and towards the longboats. He kept his gaze forward, tracking potential handholds should he slip, but his mind was elsewhere. His mood darkening to match the storm looming overhead. Mr. Scott would make a formidable and fair Quartermaster — he knew he wasn’t wrong about that.

He’d been wrong to think that was all there was to it.

* * *

“Fuck,” Charles rasped, his throat as dry as a desert. “What the . . . fuck.”

“Ah, I see you’ve decided to wake up and join the living.”

“Jack. Turn out the . . . lights.”

“Yeah, that’s the sun. I couldn’t turn it out if I wanted to. Which I don’t. How much did you drink last night?”

He raised his head, peered around. The light pierced his eyes in a thousand tiny pinpricks — he could barely make out Jack’s figure, leaning with his back to the door. “Fuck,” he said again, “fuck the sun. . . fuck everything."

"Alright then, I can see what kind of mood you woke up in. This, my dear captain, my friend, Chaz, this is what us mere mortals like to call, a hangover."

"I," he growled, rolling into a sitting positioning, angling his head so that the sun wasn't directly in his eyes. "had figured that bit out. I take it we survived the storm?"

"Oh yes," a bottle nudged his shoulder after Jack crossed the room to stand in front of him. His hand fell to the opposite shoulder and squeezed. "We escaped it around dawn, not too far off from the Walrus. Here, hair of the dog that bit you."

"What happened?" he demanded. He took the bottle and took two long sips. God, his head was pounding and his stomach felt like an endless, empty, pit. Why, why had he decided the thing to do while riding out the storm was getting drunk?

Jack nudged the bottle back towards his face, "drink up, I'd rather you be on your way to inebriated again than hungover." His tone wasn’t to be argued with, Charles decided, and he obeyed. After another long sip, he wiped his mouth and leveled Jack with a stare.

“How bad is it?”

“Fairly bad. We’ve reached where the schedule said the Urca would be.”

“And?”

“It’s nowhere to be seen, so far,” Jack shrugged, “our crew is well in hand, they were more looking for the fight than the gold, you know how they are. As long as we find a ship to hunt before heading home they’ll be satiated. I can’t speak for the Walrus or Flint’s men.”

He winced and took another drink of rum. He pushed it back at Jack, it was too tempting to finish it. But he couldn’t. That would leave him in a state that wouldn’t help anyone — he owed Flint more than that.

Jack offered his hand and he eyed it for a second, signed, and took it. He stumbled to his feet and shut his eyes as everything spun around him.

“What a grand time to have a hungover captain,” Jack muttered.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” he said, “want to talk about why you dove into a bottle? The last time it was this bad, was after that last falling out with Guthrie. When she . . . When you . . . _Oh_.”

Charles left his eyes shut, not because the world was still spinning but because he wasn’t sure he was ready to see the expression on Jack’s face. He knew he’d put the pieces together. The last time Charles had reacted like this, was when he finally accepted he was losing someone that mattered to him. Before, it had been Eleanor. Now, he was going to lose Jack. It was silly to feel like this, the situations were only similar on the surface level. He and Jack would remain friends and there had been no betrayal. And he wasn’t truly losing Jack, there would just be more . . . distance between them.

“Charles.”

Jack fell silent after saying his name and they stood there for a few moments, the silence comfortable and full of things left unsaid. It was broken when the door swung open and Anne strode in. She arched her brows at them but didn’t otherwise comment on how close they were standing.

“You’re both needed on deck,” she said, “sails have been spotted.”

* * *

Thomas took his time walking the length of the ship, his head down and his gaze trained on his shoes. Yesterday, he would have stopped to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face, the sound of the waves around him, the expanse of dark blue water meeting the lighter colored skies. Now, he couldn’t spare a moment to take any of it in.

He climbed the steps to the upper deck slowly and tried not to think about the conversation he would be joining. Not that he would have much, if any, valuable input to offer. He’d only ever examined naval tactics after the fact, from reports. He’d only ever debated them as a hypothetical. He would be no help against the reality of a Man of War bearing down on them. At the top of the stairs, he paused, taking a deep breath. No one had noticed him yet.

_I’m thankful you came along,_ James had said just this morning.

_I am too. I don’t think I could have handled waiting at home, not this time. I don’t know how Miranda manages it, she’s stronger than I am._

_You forget_ — _Miranda gets horribly seasick._

_That may have something to do with it, I admit._

It had been a light exchange, a reason to smile as they lounged in bed. James had said that when it seemed everything was falling into place in their favor — would he still be glad Thomas was here now that things were decidedly not? He hoped so, he hoped to be a comfort rather than a burden. His eyes fluttered shut and he tried to remember the peace he’d felt mere hours ago, _sweetheart,_ James had called him. It was a less common endearment from him, and all the more cherished for it.

“Thomas? Everything alright?” James was standing at the railing, facing away from Thomas and towards the oncoming ship. He had a scope to his eye and was peering into the distance.

“No,” he said, and James lowered the scope and turned to face him. On his far side, Charles shifted to swipe it and take over examining the other ship.

_I look forward to more mornings spent like this, once this is all over,_ he had said, when the sound of the crew waking and moving around had drifted into the cabin. _On land, at home, of course._

_It’s a nice thought. Perhaps we’ll even manage to coax Miranda into lazing about with us._

_Do we have to get up yet?_

_We have a few more moments_, James had said.

James was still waiting on him to speak, his face impassive. “Billy and Hal are doing their best,” Thomas said, and he met James’ intense gaze and refused to look back down, “but the crew is growing . . . we’ll, I’d say ‘restless’ but that would be underselling it.”

“It’s alright,” James said, “we have the beginnings of a workable plan. The Man of War isn't here by accident. The Urca is nearby, we just have to find it. But first, the Man of War has to be taken care of. It’s too far off to make out more than shapes of our ships at this point. We’ll use that to our advantage, won’t we, Charles?”

“I do enjoy playing the villain,” Charles said, “it’s playing bait I don’t care for.”

“It’s the best way to get them between us and in a disadvantageous position for their guns.”

“I know. We’ll have to sell it.”

“Don’t hit my ship,” James said, pointing a finger at Charles, “you can fire at us to make it look good, but you better damn well miss.”

Thomas looked between the two of them, their words were teasing but there was a tension to their shoulders and expressions that revealed how dire the situation truly was. It should probably have worried Thomas, instead, he felt better for the evidence that he wasn’t alone in his trepidation.

“The plan is to trick them into thinking we’re attacking each other?”

James nodded, “we’ll pretend to be a Spanish merchant ship beset by pirates. We have the colors and the Man of War is here to escort Urca. I guarantee they don’t know these routes enough to second guess our story.”

“The timing will be essential,” Charles observed, handing the collapsed scope back to James. “Think you can get your crew in hand?”

“They’ll do as I say if they know what’s good for them,” James growled.

Charles bared his teeth in a predatory smile and offered his hand to Flint. They gripped each other’s forearms, eyes locking, two warriors balanced on their heels and ready for battle. “I’ll go ready the Ranger and my men,” he said, “try not to die. Either of you.”

He paused next to Thomas on his way to the stairs, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “Trust us,” he murmured, “we’ll get out of this alive.”

After he was gone, Thomas joined James at the rail and they stood there in companionable silence. He caught James looking his way a few times, and knew he would stand there with him until one of two things happened. Either Thomas would speak or James would be unable to delay handling his crew no longer.

Thomas cleared his throat. It felt like there was a vice slowly tightening there, restricting his airway. “I will. . .” he said, “help however and wherever you want me to. But James, if at all possible, I’d like to stay by your side. . .”

He glanced sideways and met James’ stare. He owed him that much. “Please don’t shut me away in the cabin or down below. Let me do what I came for, let me guard your back.”

“There is a chance this will end in boarding the Man of War — close range fighting may happen,” James said, quietly. “Are you prepared for that?”

“Am I ready to kill, you mean,” Thomas said, “I don’t think I could possibly answer that honestly,” he turned his head back frontward, watching the ship that was becoming larger and looming closer with every passing moment. His stomach was twisted in knots, his hands were clammy, and he couldn’t quite stop the trembling in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be wasting time, dragging this out. I’m. . . prepared as I’ll ever be. If it comes down to my life. Your life. Or some stranger’s?” He bowed his head, feeling the stirrings of shame for the first time in years, “I can do it. I’d rather be there if you need me. . . than be hidden away and left wondering if I could have made a difference. I can’t live with that.”

Beside him, he heard James shift his weight and sigh in a long gust. Such familiar sounds, in the middle of this crisis. It was a tell James had, one that told of him feeling his own shame or guilt. He suspected James was blaming himself for the position Thomas found himself in. James still hadn’t said anything and the suspense was killing him. But then, what could he possibly say? What else could Thomas say to convince him?

They couldn’t stand here forever, James couldn’t leave his crew to ferment in their frustration for much longer. Thomas’ chance to plead his case was done. He could only hope that it had worked. He couldn’t bear being asked to hide away, he couldn’t bear the possibility of surviving James’ death because of it. They’d had years together, years more than he had a right to expect after their near-miss in London, but that didn’t make the idea of losing James easier. In truth, it made it harder.

The things he’d just been beginning to learn back then: how James looked first thing in the morning, his favorite type of wine, the spot on the back of his neck that if you rubbed the right way left him boneless and relaxed, those things that had seemed so important back then. They were only the surface of what he’d learned in the time since coming to Nassau. Now, he knew what James’ face looked like when his eyes fluttered open from a nap on the beach, he knew the way he sagged into his and Miranda’s arms when they were reunited after far too long apart, he knew every single one of his favorite books, he knew the story behind all of his scars, and most of all — he knew down to the depths of his being how far James would go to keep him and Miranda safe and happy.

He’d thought he couldn’t survive losing James back in London, now, he knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to, and he knew that was selfish, that Miranda would need him, that he should take steps to ensure at least one of them could return to her. But he couldn’t — he wanted to gamble his life on protecting James’. He could only hope that Miranda would forgive him for it. That James would allow it.

“James?” He whispered, his impatience winning out over his trepidation.

“You will stay right by my side. I mean it, Thomas, I want you within arm’s reach as much as possible,” James said. He was leaning his hip against the railing now, arms crossed over his chest, looking at Thomas.

“Yes,” Thomas said, “of course. I promise, James.”

“Good,” James said, his arms falling to his sides. He leaned forward and Thomas startled backward.

“I. . . What are you doing?”

“Getting a good luck kiss before going to deal with the men. That was the idea, anyway.”

“Oh.”

James’ hand found his cheek and he nuzzled into it, turning and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“I was hoping for a bit more than that,” James said, his voice light and teasing. His hand reeled Thomas in and he went willingly, pressing their lips together, their noses bumping.

“Go fetch your sword,” James said, nudging their foreheads together and nipping his bottom lip, “meet me back on deck.”

Thomas leaned back, examining James’ face.

“What?”

“You’re not going to lock me into the cabin,” he said, “are you?”

James laughed, “for that alone, I should, but no sweetheart, I won’t. This isn’t a trick, you need your blade.”

“Okay.”

“Go on then,” James said, “we don’t have time to waste.”

“Okay,” he said again and James’ rumble of “stop stalling and get going,” made him smile.

“What if I want another kiss before I go?”

“Do you really have to ask,” James said. Warm lips brushed his cheeks, kissed his forehead, and then found his mouth. Thomas could taste the spice from the rum they’d shared with breakfast, and he savored the moment.

* * *

“This is nice,” Max said, “I hadn’t expected you to be up to visiting.”

“Hm,” Miranda said. She was looking out the open window, staring at the buildings as if they would disappear any moment and give her a clear view to the bay. It didn’t surprise Max, her friend had been distracted since she arrived and sat down for afternoon tea. “I’m sorry,” Miranda said, “what did you say?”

“I was just observing how nice it is to see you away from your balcony.”

“My. . . balcony. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Every time I’ve passed by the shop over the last week you’ve been there, watching.”

“Ah,” Miranda looked down at her hands. “Yes, I suppose I've spent a good bit of time out there.”

“A bit? Miranda, I keep odd hours, and yet, you’re always there. Have you been sleeping?”

“Mm,” Miranda was back to looking out the window.

“You were the one who wanted to have tea. Come on, talk to me. Just, please, look at me, Miranda. Is everything alright?”

“Alright? No, nothing is alright.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“James and Thomas are gone, isn’t that enough reason to be worried?”

Max raised an eyebrow, “yes, ordinarily I would think so. But, you rarely seek me out here. I’ve always come to your shop in the past. Something else is bothering you.”

“You didn’t own the brothel before.”

“My finder’s fee was well spent. Don’t change the subject, we both know that’s not it.”

Miranda didn’t answer but she didn’t deny it either. Her eyes stayed fixed out the window. But her hands curled tighter around her cup of tea. She hadn’t drank so much as a sip, despite the fact that Max knew it was one of her favorite blends.

“So,” Max spread her hands and looked at her friend expectantly. She knew better than to press more than she already had, Miranda would talk when she was ready and not one second sooner. But this level of distraction was beginning to worry her. She’d never seen her like this, but then, Thomas had never gone with James before. Miranda had always had company to wait with.

“It. . . I can’t really explain,” Miranda said, “I just. . . have a bad feeling. I have no basis for it. . . and I can’t shake it.”

“A feeling,” Max said encouragingly, her voice as understanding as she could make it when she didn’t understand at all. Miranda was so solemn, it was hard to believe a bad feeling had caused this.

“Yes,” Miranda said abruptly, her eyes meeting Max’s, “I’ve got this foreboding feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong. And since everything is stable and quiet here. . .”

“You think it has to do with James and Thomas,” Max concluded.

“I’m not crazy,” Miranda said sharply, her tone almost belligerent.

“I did not say you were,” Max said, “Well. . . you are certain it’s not the separation? Unless you have felt this before?”

“This has happened in the past,” Miranda said tiredly, “the day we left London. I got into an argument with James, I just knew something awful was going to happen if the three of us were separated. I almost let him go, I almost didn’t listen to it.”

“What happened?”

“Thomas happened. He walked in on us, took stock of what was happening, and came up with a plan that allowed James to stay. I shudder to think what would have happened otherwise.”

“If nothing terrible happened, how do you know your feeling was correct?”

“Oh, something terrible happened,” Miranda said and she finally picked up her tea and took a sip. Her lips pursed and Max saw the moment she realized it had grown cold while they sat here. She lowered the cup back to the table. “It just wasn’t as terrible as it could have been.”

“Okay,” Max said, “well. . . If it was avoided, or mitigated last time. Who’s to say that won’t happen again? Thomas and James are together, they have Vane as consort. Surely. It will be fine . .” She fiddled with her own cup of tea on the table. “Sorry,” she said finally, “I’m not helping, am I.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect anything to help. Truly, your company is a balm itself.”

“Miranda. . .”

“Perhaps a change in subject is in order.”

Max raised an eyebrow but dipped her head in agreement.

The view out the window threatened to steal Miranda’s attention again but she shifted in her seat and leaned in towards Max, putting the window to her back so that she would have to turn and look over her shoulder to see out it. It was possible she was deliberately denying herself the option and forcing her focus onto their conversation. Max leaned forward.

“Ah,” she said, “now is a good time to broach a topic I’ve been meaning to get your opinion on.”

“Consider me intrigued.”

“Good. How well do you know Jack and Anne?”

Miranda frowned, “not well. I’ve interacted with them in group settings. I know Jack slightly more than Anne, I suppose, he and Charles stayed over after drinks not long ago.”

“But you’ve seen them interact. How exclusive do you think they are?”

“What? Do you mean. . . Well. That would depend on how you define exclusive.”

“I define it as being willing, or not, to bed people outside their relationship.”

“So you _do_ have your eye on Anne.”

“You noticed? Of course, you did,” Max said, “she’s seemed, ah what is the word, curious at the brothel of late. Looking a bit too long and not at the men or her man.”

Miranda frowned again. “I’m not sure she knows she’s looking, or what that may mean. You would have to. . . ease her into it. And if I were you, I’d keep one thing I mind.”

“What’s that?”

“Jack. Whatever their relationship may be, it is a long term one. Their exclusivity may not extend to who warms their beds, but I suspect they are exclusive in other ways.”

“You and Thomas accepted James on equal terms.”

That caught Miranda’s full attention. “That was because we both fell in love with him,” Miranda said, “you may service men here in the brothel, but can you honestly say that’s where your interest lies? Could you love them both?”

Max looked down at her hands, wrong-footed at being read so easily. Her preference for women was something she was careful not to project — she made, or had made, her profits predominantly off men. Eleanor was an exception, rather than the rule. Women, even ones interested in other women, rarely patronized brothels. “It does not matter, of course, I have Eleanor,” she said, “I was merely wondering what you thought.”

“You do,” Miranda said, and it wasn’t phrased like a question but her tone and arched brow turned it into one.

“For now,” Max admitted, “I have her. I love her, but I wonder sometimes. . .”

“Max,” Miranda said, and her voice was softer than before. “Sometimes loving someone, if they don’t return those feelings the way they should, can be painful. I don’t want that for you.”

It was Max’s turn to fiddle with her cup and avert her gaze out the windows. “I know,” she said, she didn’t clarify which statement she was affirming. Some small piece of her believed that Eleanor loved her, a larger piece of her knew that under the right set of circumstances Eleanor would betray her just as she had Charles. She had priorities she would place above Max if it became necessary. She’d feel guilty about it, would rationalize it away, but she would do it. Max often felt she was just waiting. Waiting for that day to come.

“Perhaps this wasn’t a better subject,” she said, “it’s certainly not more cheerful.”

Miranda was still studying her. “We seem doomed to ruin this beautiful day by sitting inside and being morose.”

“You started it.”

“Indeed I did,” Miranda said, matter-of-fact, her mouth ticking up into a smile.

Max laughed out loud, and was pleased to hear Miranda echo her with a quiet chuckle. “Well, at least one of those things can be solved,” she said, climbing to her feet, “our tea is beyond rescuing. How about a walk?”

“That,” Miranda said, “is a splendid idea. May I suggest a stroll down to the beach?”

She stepped back from the table, watching Miranda rise as well, the room feeling lighter with each passing moment. The newfound cheer may have carried them out the door and into the warm sunlight and away from their worries if Miranda’s skirts hadn’t caught on the table and jarred it as she passed. It shook and Miranda’s teacup, precariously placed on the edge, toppled over and shattered on the ground.

Miranda’s lips pursed. “Still think everything will work out just fine?”

* * *

“They’re returning fire!”

James herded him against the railing, pinning him there. Everyone on the upper deck ducked or found something to hold onto as the Man of War’s first barrage barreled towards them. Their opening salvo had done a good bit of damage as the Man of War chased the Ranger, but now the game was up and it had turned back toward them to better return fire. The Ranger would follow suit and trap it between them — they just had to survive long enough for that to make a difference. James started giving orders as soon as the last cannon ball hit while Thomas was still trying to regain his bearings. He’d never been on a ship under fire before, hell, he’d never been in a fight before. Suddenly, the duels he’d taken part in seemed paltry in comparison. Those duels had never been to the death, he’d never been in any true danger.

“Mr. Gates,” James said, “set the men to reloading and preparing to return fire. Have them await my order. Mr. Bones, assist him, if you please. Our advantage is dwindling and I want to preserve it as long as possible. The Ranger turns quick, but that’s no reason for us to lollygag. Mr. DeGroot, check and ensure nothing integral has been damaged. Report to me immediately If you find anything. If there’s so much as a scratch on her mainmast I want to know about it. If we’ve sprung a leak I want to know about it. If we’re in danger of losing this ship _I want to know about it._ Thomas, stay close to me.”

For a single beat, the crew of the Walrus was silent and still.

James growled, stepping away from the rail and advancing toward the crew. “Did you fall deaf in the last few moments? You have your orders, obey them,” he said, and Thomas could hear the ice in his tone, the rigid formality the navy had drilled into him. It was disconcerting to see his lover turn so cold but he couldn’t argue with the results.

Activity exploded around him as the men hastened to do as he’d asked, Hal and Billy yelling instructions above the cacophony. Everyone was moving, except for the two of them.

Thomas approached him, his steps slow and measured. “James,” he said, just his name, low and soft.

Hard green eyes met his and he squared his shoulders and refused to shrink away.

“James,” he said again.

“Can I persuade you to go back to the cabin?” James asked, his voice pitched low, “being up here is fraught with danger, Thomas.”

"No," Thomas said calmly, "I'm staying with—“

"We're ready, Captain," Hal called. "They are undoubtedly almost done reloading themselves. It's hard to see the Ranger on their other side, but she must be lining up her own canons as we speak. What now?"

James looked away from him and surveyed the ship and his gaze shifting out towards the enemy ship. He could see the calculation happening in his gaze, could see James analyzing the odds of their timing matching Charles'.

"Fire,” James said, his voice pitched to carry across the ship. For a heartbeat, the ship was still, and then it shook beneath him as the first cannon fired. Thomas stumbled sideways and an arm caught him, steadying him. He looked over to see James was still fixed on the Man of War. He followed his gaze and could make out smoke from the other side and he sighed, the tension In his shoulders uncoiling. Their timing had matched Charles’, their plan was working.

“Mr. Gates,” James was saying, “have the men continue to fire at will and tell the Vanguard to get ready.”

“You think we’ll need them?”

James didn’t answer and Hal waited a moment before turning to do as he asked. it was chaos around them as men shouted and dodged the return fire, all while trying to listen to and carry out the orders from Hal and Billy. He had been told about this kind of battle by the navy men his father paraded through their home when he was a child — but they had always made it sound more purposeful than what was happening now. They hadn’t mentioned men writhing on the floor from shrapnel wounds, or men abandoning their post to hide below deck, or men who ignored all of that and continued to load, fire, duck and repeat with an eerie kind of remoteness. It was. . . madness with only a small bit of a point to it all.

“Is there. . . anything we should be doing?”

James was silent. He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Now,” he said, “we watch and wait to see who blinks first.”

“Blinks?”

“Yes. They outclass us in weaponry and force but they’re fighting on both sides and trapped between us. I’m hoping they raise a white flag sooner than later.”

“If they don’t — we, what, board and take them by force? Is that right?”

“In general,” James said, “and how hard they fight could tell us how close by the Urca is.”

Thomas started laughing. It was probably the adrenaline, he was probably going into shock. Probably. But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t smother the hysteria bubbling in his gut.

“I’m impressed,” he said between laughs. “Everything has another layer for you, everything circles back to whatever your current objective is. You can’t turn off that part of your brain, can you? You’re always looking two steps ahead of everyone else.”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing.”

“I mean, I love your beautiful brain, you know that, but there are cannonballs flying at us as we speak and yet you’re standing here, calm as can be, calculating the time it takes them to surrender. That has to be commented on.”

“In that case, it might amuse you more to know that I’m also trying to figure out how we might take the Man of War home with us. It easily outclasses all our current ships and could be invaluable for defending Nassau.”

“Jesus. You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

“Are you surprised?”

He no longer wanted to laugh. James was looking at him and there was something haunted lurking behind his eyes. It was something he hadn’t seen directed at him in a long time. In years. Suddenly, he was standing in their home in London and James was looking at him just like that, asking with his eyes whether Thomas really knew him, really _wanted_ him. Then, he’d answered by kissing James for the first time. Now, a kiss wouldn’t have the same impact or be as much of a statement in and of itself as it had been then. Still, he would reassure James, he would have found an effective way to do that, but before he could the ship fell silent as movement ceased and the guns stopped firing.

“Captain,” Hal said, “look, they’ve put up the white flag.”

A cheer went up and the moment was gone.

* * *

“So, as it turns out, we were right,” Charles said smugly, a day later. They were huddled in a patch of sand dunes, peering over the hills at the remains of the Urca, her crew, and the gold strewn across the sand. They’d captured the Man of War and marooned the Spanish crew on a nearby island. James had been merciful enough to make it an island that was on the main trade routes — he wagered they’d be rescued in a matter of days. Thomas had cast him a knowing look when Charles had complained about it, and he couldn’t deny the warm feeling that had settled in his middle as a result.

James didn’t turn from surveying the scene in front of them, “what, specifically do you mean? We were right about a number of things.”

He was rewarded by a laugh from Thomas and an amused huff from Charles. “Oh, you know, the Urca being nearby, it existing at all, I could go on.”

“Normally, I would say please do,” Thomas said, and James looked away from the scene to watch him, “but perhaps we should focus on the matter at hand.”

Jack moved closer at that, and studied them. His gaze lingered on Charles the longest. There was an odd tension between the two of them, where there had been none before.

“Fortune is smiling on us today gentlemen,” Jack said, “the Urca crew is either sick or starving and exhausted. Easy pickings.”

“Volunteering to lead the Vanguard, are you?” Charles challenged.

Jack sputtered, “now, no one wants that.”

James rubbed at his forehead and sighed. “Hal and Anne are I organizing the men, they’ll pick someone to lead the charge. But, we’ll all need to fight, we have too many injured for us to reasonably sit out.”

“Because you ever do that.”

“Do we need to go over why kettles shouldn’t call pots black again?”

Charles scowled, looked away, and sighed. “At least no great strategy is required for this one. I’ve been itching for a good fight.”

“When are you not?” Jack arched his brows, his tone light, and teasing. It was interesting to watch how that affected Charles, he could spot the moment the irritation drained from his shoulders and the reappearance of the gleam in his brown eyes.

“Alright, Jackie boy,” Charles said, and he climbed to his feet and brushed the sand off his knees. “Let’s go find Anne and get things moving. I’d rather get this finished before dark. If that’s okay with you?”

The last bit was directed at him and James considered it, looking back over the beach. The sun would be setting behind them soon, if they timed it right, the glare would be in their opponent's eyes when they attacked. “We’ll attack in an hour,” he said finally, “get everyone ready.”

Charles nodded and towed Jack off towards where the rest of the crew was huddled. He twisted to lean back against the sand, elbows propped on his raised knees. Thomas crouched on his haunches beside him, and he was frowning.

“What’s with the face?”

“James, I. . . I need to say something to you. Something I maybe should have said a long time ago.”

“Mm.” He raised a hand to shade his face from the sun, studying Thomas. He looked nervous, the muscle in his jaw jumping, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. It wouldn’t be the upcoming battle, not yet. For some reason, he was nervous about what he had to say to James. Nervous about he would react? That thought sent something cold and wary trickling down his spine.

“Well, I don’t quite know where to start. I know you dislike being Captain Flint, that you consider him a monster. But I don’t. Think that. Flint. . . He’s an integral part of you, James.”

“You. . .” He found himself unable to complete the sentence. Or breathe around the vice constricting his throat.

“He is _you_,” Thomas said desperately, “Flint has always been there, in your temper and your protectiveness and your single-minded focus. That’s not a bad thing, love. Miranda and I have talked about it, and we agree, that Flint. . . was always there under the surface.”

“You talked about it.” He said, and it was his Captain Flint voice and it was not a question. He couldn’t have inflected it up into a question and out of a growl if his life had depended on it.

“Yes. Not long. . . after we came to Nassau and you took up the Captaincy.”

James had never wished for a scarf to hide his face more than at this moment. He didn’t know what expression he was making, but if it matched the slow knife entering his gut, it was something raw and hard to look at. Thomas’ gaze dropped away. “It. . .” he said, “we weren’t. . . We should have brought it up then. I should have. I’m sorry.”

“You both thought I always had it in me to be a nightmare-inducing scourge of the seas,” he said, his abdomen ached as the knife twisted and he felt lightheaded with it.

“No! Christ almighty, no, that’s not what I’m trying to say. And you’re not, Flint is not that. People who fear you have told stories to paint you into being a villain but they’re not the truth. You know that and I know that.”

“Alright,” he said when he could breathe again. “Then what are you trying to say?”

“That what makes you an effective captain is what made you an impressive Lieutenant,” he said, “That the insight that allows you to control your crew is what enabled you to move up the ranks and rub elbows with nobility despite their prejudice against you. You know how to inspire loyalty and you know what method does it most effectively. In London it was by being respectable and competent — here it’s by being intimidating and fearless.”

“I don’t understand,” James said, and he could hear his own confusion underlying his tone.

“I’m not saying this right. . . what I’m trying to say is, I know you try to hide Captain Flint from us. That you don’t like. . . being him around us. But James — we, I, love you. All of you. James McGraw. Captain Flint. They’re both you and I love them both.”

James was quiet and he became aware that Thomas was watching him again. His expression must have settled into something less raw, then. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” Thomas said. “I didn’t realize the lengths — you go to — to hide away from us. I should have. Realized sooner. Said something sooner—“ Thomas turned his face away sharply and James examined it, caught off guard to find pain and guilt etched there. “I failed you in this, again. I fought so hard to shed you of your shame about loving us, that I didn’t notice your shame about becoming Flint. I, I should have, fuck,” he ended faintly, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry James,” he said, looking right at him through red-rimmed eyes. “Can you forgive me? I wanted so badly to believe everything was okay that I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe I didn’t want to see—“ he stopped again. James could see him struggling to get through this conversation but he couldn’t cut through his shock and mystification to help. When Thomas had said he’d had something to say, this had not been what he’d expected.

“Do you remember,” Thomas said, and he fell back to sit more comfortably on the sand, bracing his hands behind him and reclining back. Still, the tension lingered in his shoulders, anxiety pinching his expression. “Do you remember, the first day we met? That awful wig I was wearing?”

Thomas’ voice was quiet, had been quiet this whole conversation. “How could I forget,” he said, as evenly as he could manage.

“It was a beautiful day,” Thomas said, “and you weren’t at all what I expected. I’ve never been so pleased to be wrong, to be surprised.”

James nodded mutely, stunned at the direction the conversation had moved in. He remembered that day so well it could have been yesterday. The sun in his eyes as he climbed the steps towards a waiting figure. He could picture that dark curly wig, the sardonic smile on Thomas’ face when he’d unthinkingly made a comment about it.

“That was a lifetime ago,” he said at last. It was a statement that said nothing, as if it could buy him time to think of something else to say. But Thomas just sat there, his eyes on him. Knowing and kind and hard to meet.

“The day _was_ beautiful,” Thomas said, “you were more so.”

He dropped his gaze to study his boots and the sand they were planted on. It was curious how those words, and the words spoken before, could cleave him into with all the sharpness and pain of a blade. He fought the urge to glance down and check that there wasn’t actually something piercing his middle. Not that it was surprising, what Thomas had said. It had been ten years. Those years had not been as kind to him as they had been to his lovers, he knew. He hadn’t aged in the innocuous ways they had — new lines around the eyes, glimmers of grey in their hair. They had aged like fine wine and he found them more beautiful with every passing day. He, he had not aged that gracefully. His aging was found in numerous new and ugly scars, in the harsh cut of his cheekbones, and the lingering exhaustion he saw in his eyes every time he looked in the mirror. Some of it fell away when he was home, when he was with them. But it hardly made a difference.

“Well,” he said with forced lightness when he found his voice, “with time comes wrinkles, on our brows and on our hearts, mine are just more. . . apparent to the eye than most.”

“How,” Thomas said, “how can you sit there and not understand how beautiful you _still_ are? James, how can you look like that and say things like that and not understand how compelling and attractive you are. Miranda and I never stood a chance, loving you was the only option.”

James blinked at him.

“Is anything I’m saying getting through to you? I’ll keep saying it until you believe it, you know how stubborn I can be. I’ll get Miranda in on it too. When we get home. Because we will make it home. Okay? And I know you haven’t asked yet because I blindsided you with this conversation. . . But what I said on the Walrus applies here too. I’m fighting at your back so don’t even try to convince me not to.” Thomas said, and he tilted his head back to look up at the sky, his eyes slipping shut.

He just stared at him. _The stress of everything has gotten to Thomas,_ the logical and rational part of him whispered. That part was small in comparison to the larger part of him that trusted Thomas, and Miranda, and the solidness of their relationship. He shifted, crawling over to Thomas and putting a hand on his arm. He could feel the warmth of his skin underneath the thin shirt he was wearing, and Thomas cracked an eye, peering at him. “I look forward to you convincing me,” he said, “but, we have gold to go get first.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, and sighed, a little shaky but with a rueful smile.

James climbed to his feet, offered Thomas a hand up. They were both a little unsteady, bracing each other and finding their footing anew.

“I love you too,” he said after a moment of companionable silence.

Thomas didn’t reply, just pulled him closer, one hand on the back of his neck and the other cradling his jaw. He brushed a strand of hair out of James’ eyes, a strange and content expression on his face. “I know.”

“I know,” James echoed, “still wanted to say it.”

Thomas’ lips were on his, both his hands on his face, his thumbs caressing his cheeks. He all but collapsed into it, his arms rising to return the embrace with crushing force.

“Fuck,” he whispered into Thomas‘ neck when they paused. Thomas hummed, his hands rubbing up and down his back. They may have stood there indefinitely if left to their own devices, but they didn’t and they weren’t.

A throat cleared behind them and they separated to see Anne standing nearby. Her hat was tilted low to shade her eyes, but he could see a smirk hiding in the corner of her mouth.

“You boys ready to get this over with?”

“We’ll be right there,” he said, and it was Flint’s voice. He didn’t wince from it, or distance himself from Thomas.

He knew without looking that Thomas was smiling trimuphantly.

* * *

Of course, Jack Rackham’s first fallback for quelling unrest among the men was to throw a celebration.

There was a good bit to celebrate, James would admit. They’d made short work of what was left of the Urca’s crew and the gold was theirs, as was the Man of War. They would be returning home with more than they’d thought possible. It was enough to do what James had hoped it would, it would give them the ability to fortify Nassau. It would change life as they knew it on the island. He knew the others thought nothing of camping on the beach for the night, of drinking and celebrating. All he could think was that it was one more night they weren’t home, one more night before they could get the gold somewhere secure. The fight had been short, but brutal and his head ached from exhaustion and the strain of staying awake and focused.

But Jack wanted to celebrate and Charles had been inclined to indulge him. James couldn’t have fought it if he had wanted to. The men had certainly jumped on the idea with fervor, not a one had complained about lugging the rum from the ships to the beach. That would not repeat itself when the same men had to load the ships with gold while suffering from what would surely be wicked hangovers.

“You could at least pretend you’re having fun,” Charles said, coming to stand beside him.

“The view is nice,” he conceded, studying the way the moon danced across the breaking waves.

“That the best you could do? Come on, come share a drink with me. It won’t kill you to let the men see you’re human and can enjoy yourself.”

He smiled. Because: who would have thought a year ago that Charles Vane would be saying that to him? “And you,” he said, “are a better friend than most would give you credit for.”

Charles looked away, but he still spotted the pleased smile. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Thomas, standing ankle-deep in the surf. He glanced at Charles and they shared a fond look, both relieved at how well Thomas seemed to be handling the day they’d had.

“We still have a lot to talk about,” James said.

“Yeah, but it can wait. Go check on your lover. Maybe he can convince you to relax a bit.”

“That offer for a drink will stand?”

“Indefinitely,” Charles said, reaching over to grip his shoulder and propel him forward, “go on, get.”

He shot him a glare over his shoulder but started walking with a rueful chuckle. Thomas’ profile was still against the churn of the sea, his hands shoved in his pockets and his face tilted up towards the moon.

“How are you?” He asked after he tugged off his boots, rolled up his pants and stepped into the waves to join Thomas. The cool water lapped at his calves and he shivered.

“I’m okay,” Thomas murmured, swaying sideways to press their arms together, “surprisingly so. Considering.”

James smiled, reaching down to clasp his hand. He tangled their fingers together and squeeze. “You did well, you know.”

“Mm.” Thomas said.

“Thank you, is what I’m trying to say. You saved my life today.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, Thomas’ grip on his hand tight and his gaze still fixed on the moon. “Thomas, sweetheart, you saved me. But, I’m sorry you had to take a life to do it.”

“I don’t. . . I don’t know how to talk about it. Where do I start?”

“Wherever you want to. We don’t have to talk about it at all, if you don’t want to.”

Thomas was frowning, and his fingers clenched and unclenched around James’. It hurt a bit, but he refused to say a word about it. “So,” Thomas said, “the thing is. I don’t feel bad. He was going to kill you, stab you in the back. I don’t regret it.”

“That’s normal,” James said, “it came down to me or him. If it had been reversed I would have done the same thing and I wouldn’t have lost a bit of sleep over it. It’s human, Thomas, to prioritize a life you love over a life you don’t even know.”

“I still took a life. A unique life that won’t ever be alive again. Ended. By my hand. I should feel guilty, right?“

It was James’ turn to examine the moon instead of meeting Thomas’ gaze. “I never have,” he said, “not about killing in battle.”

“Which ones do you feel guilty about?”

He’d known that question was coming but he didn’t know how to begin to answer it. The easy answer was that he regretted the ones that weren’t necessary. But that wasn’t true, they all had been, from a certain point of view. His free hand gripped the butt of his pistol, the weapon he carried solely for making a point. Thomas must have seen the gesture, and read it correctly, because he sighed and he let go of his hand to wrap his arm around his waist instead, leaning against him, molding them shoulder to hip.

“We’re a sorry pair,” he said, “aren’t we?”

“Mm. You may feel regret later,” James said, his arm winding around Thomas’ shoulders, “sometimes the weight of what happened. Of what you were forced to do. It can take time to sink in.”

“I may,” Thomas agreed. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s the case. You’re here beside me, alive and unhurt. I think I would do just about anything, without regret, to ensure that continues. You’ve done so much for us, are you truly surprised that it goes both ways?”

“I’m less so with each day,” he said at last.

Thomas shut his eyes, “another failure.”

And James’ mind raced. He remembered Thomas saying something similar earlier that day and before that, over a decade ago, when he’d confessed he’d thought Thomas and Miranda were only interested in the chase. Thomas seemed to take his continuing. . . insecurities as a failing on his part. It wasn’t true, it was so far from the truth, but for the life of him, he didn’t know how to make Thomas understand.

“You can’t honestly think that any of my. . . doubts are your fault.” He said quietly and Thomas opened his eyes, studying him. He wasn’t prepared to be hit with the full weight behind his blue eyes, the intentness there.

“James,” Thomas said. He dropped his eyes but there seemed to be a lot of meaning hidden in the way he’d said his name. “Why do you think you’re the only one who should have to get your hands bloody? Why shouldn’t I, and Miranda even, have to as well?”

He recognized Thomas’ tone of voice then, the way he tilted his chin just so. It was how he’d often spoke and looked in the Salons when they’d first met, when he prepared to logic someone into reaching the same conclusion he had arrived at. He sighed, but knew it was futile to not play the game.

“That’s, that’s my role. Isn’t it? To be the protector,” James said, “if you or Miranda have to. . . Well. Then that’s my failing. Today was mine, not yours.”

Thomas didn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s not that you doubt our dedication then, just that you think the only purpose you serve is as a shield and sword for our wellbeing.”

It was his turn to be struck silent. He shut his eyes, his teeth grinding until his jaw ached, the pounding behind his eyes so sharp he felt a bit dizzy with it. He must have been quiet for too long because Thomas jostled him a bit, his hand bumping into his ribs.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flying open.

“James? _James_, what’s wrong?”

But he couldn’t answer, he couldn’t speak, as he stumbled and fell down to his knees, taking Thomas with him. The arm around his waist vanished, hands cupping his face, and his eyes fluttered shut again.

“Jesus, James open your eyes,” Thomas sounded panicked and he fought to obey but his eyelids were too heavy. “Darling, _please_, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He couldn’t open his eyes, but, as the pain slowly drained away from his side, he could breathe a bit better. Well enough to grit out a few words.

“M fine,” he rasped, “just. Aggravated old wound. My ribs are tender. Singleton.”

“James,” Thomas said his name again, a desperation he’d never heard from him before coloring his voice, “Should I get Howell?”

“No,” he said, focusing on taking a few deep breaths of air. He wrenched his eyes back open, Thomas’ pale face swimming into view. “Sweetheart, I’m okay. I swear, I’m okay.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” Thomas had leaned his forehead against James’. The gesture was so intimate, so familiar that it made James’ chest go tight and warm. “And,” he was saying, “don’t think our conversation will be forgotten about. We’ll finish it, later.”

James nodded, a small brush of his forehead against Thomas’. One of Thomas’ hands slipped into his hair, tugging the tie holding it back loose. “I have our whole lives to convince you,” Thomas whispered, “but I’ll be cross with you if it takes the entirety.”

“Best avoid that then,” James said and he pressed their lips together in a quick and chaste kiss. He pulled back, just far enough for Thomas to see the playful quirk of his brow and so he could spot the answering smirk tucked in the corner of Thomas’ beautiful mouth.

“We’re going to be okay,” Thomas murmured against his mouth, his voice a bit amazed and James wondered which of them he was reassuring. And he nudged his mouth against Thomas’ until they were kissing again. They were kneeling in the surf and wet sand, and James couldn't bring himself to care one whit about it.

“Hey,” Thomas whispered, “your wound. Would getting off help?”

James smirked and nipped at Thomas' lip, “it may be medically necessary,” he murmured, “pain relief, you know.”

Thomas laughed softly and James couldn’t resist kissing that delicious mouth to get a taste.

* * *

Charles arrived at the meeting late, as he had planned. It allowed him to take stock of who was there, the state they were in, and weigh his chances of convincing them to see it his way. Judging by the relaxed mood he thought he might just manage. “You’re moving slow,” Flint said as he joined them around the cooling fire pit, “are you as hungover as our poor crew?”

They were positioned back against the trees, giving them a full view of the crew and their meandering parade of loot. Flint and Thomas were drinking tea of some kind and Jack was slicing up an apple. He sat beside Jack, taking a moment to examine the crew’s progress. One or two were slacking, there were always a few, but Charles didn’t care enough to do anything about it. Neither did Flint, or Jack, apparently as they were just as unconcerned.

“I want the Man of War,” he said.

Flint was stirring his tea, and his open face shuttered into something remote and impassive. Across from him, Jack gaped, his eyes darting between them. “I suspected you would say that,” Flint said.

“Did you.”

“Yes. We can split our two crews three ways, each ship will be a bit shorthanded but not to a crippling degree. I’m inclined to give you the Man of War, if you want it, but you must understand, that once back in Nassau it would be better suited guarding the bay than out on the seas. Have you considered that?”

Charles was silent. Flint tucked away the knife he’d been using to stir. He studied his tea. He looked tired and Charles wondered if he’d slept. He never had found Charles for that drink, the night before. “Jack, Thomas. Why don’t you two go check in with Hal and Anne? Charles and I have some things to discuss.”

Charles was still silent, watching as the two got to their feet. There was some grumbling and meaningful looks from Jack’s corner but he didn’t protest. Thomas paused, a hand on Flint’s shoulder. He waited until Flint looked up at him, and for a moment the two stared at each other. Having a silent conversation that Charles couldn’t follow. It ended with Thomas brushing his knuckles across Flint’s cheek and moving to follow Jack’s path through the sand.

“This discussion would be easier if it wasn’t one-sided,” Flint said after another beat of silence.

“I’m not sure what discussion it is that we’re having.”

“Fair. I have a proposition for you. We have three ships, two seasoned captains, and one quartermaster whose ambitions will soon see him a captain as well. If our partnership survives our triumphant return, and I see no reason it shouldn’t, I think we can work this to our advantage. My hope is to stay on land more often after this, seeing to the defenses on the island and ensuring the other captains fall in line with our plans. But. My crew is not likely to be content with that. And there will be times when my experience will call for me to be at sea and operating there.”

He set his teacup down, twisting the base to create a groove in the sand to stabilize it. Charles wondered if he ever planned on drinking from the damned thing. “Until England or Spain reach our shores, I think at least one of us should be in Nassau as much as possible. I’m proposing we share our ships and crews. The Man of War will stay in the bay, with a skeleton crew of those who are injured or tired or have just lost the taste for hunting. And the rest can split between the Walrus and the Ranger for hunting. I’d prefer you be the one to take the Walrus when I’m the one in Nassau, but Thomas insists I get over that if you’d rather keep the Ranger.”

Charles said nothing, he knew that was an opening for him to interject but he wasn’t taking it. Not yet. He was curious about what else Flint would say in an attempt to convince him.

“I know what it means to have a partner that you are close with. Before I met Thomas and Miranda, when I was in the navy, I had one friend among the other officers. We were close, in the way you are close with Jack. In the way, that meant we would die for each other. The thing about that is, sometimes life happens in a way where that resolve is tested. And it was, for us. And he did, die for me that is.” Flint hesitated, but forged on, “he died because of my mistake. Because I was the one who got the promotion we were both up for. And I read the signs wrong and led us into a bloody battle we had no chance of winning.”

The silence they fell into this time was mutual, and Charles wondered if Flint would continue. If he would explain what the point of that story was. There was a point, there always was when it came to Flint, he just couldn’t figure out what it was. Yet. When Flint finally spoke, his voice was tired. Resigned. “I know how hard it is, is what I’m trying to say. To lose that kind of partnership, that loyalty. My idea, my plan, would give you and Jack the option, the excuse if you like, to continue to sail together. As two captains sailing as each other’s consorts, as part of our broader partnership. That type of loyalty, it shouldn’t have to end just because one of you is moving up in the world. It is a strength, to you both, and I would hate to see it wither.”

Charles crossed his arms. He wished there was some rum left but the crew had drunk them dry the night before.

“You won’t be able to keep Jack from making mistakes, as all green captains must, but you could still be nearby to ensure they don’t end up deadly.” Flint continued, “if you agree to let me orchestrate Nassau’s defenses, to be in command, I would willingly put my own ship and life on the line before asking you to do the same. Despite common belief, I don’t view any of you as pawns to be sacrificed. I would put a bullet through my own brain before I abandon any of our men to die. Including, and especially, you and Jack and Anne. It goes without saying what I would do to protect Thomas and Miranda. I’m going to ask you to believe that much of me. I’m going to ask you to trust me, to share our ships and command, and to take my orders when it comes time to fight for our home.”

He had never seen Flint like this. He didn’t have a framework for this type of conversation, for Flint to be so thoroughly James. His words rang with an exhausted kind of sincerity. He’d seen Flint give impassioned speeches, seen him twine his crew around his little finger with pretty words and creative threats. But he’d never seen this. Or perhaps, he had. Once. That night when he’d first learned of the Urca and been persuaded to join this venture, he couldn’t be sure, that night a bit hazy in his memory. He knew Flint had enemies, he’d been one once, and he wondered how many would still be so if they’d been allowed to see this side of him. Certainly, some had, and were his enemies because of it, because they understood how dangerous a man like James Flint was.

“So, that’s my offer,” Flint picked up his tea and finally drank from it, “you can take it or leave it.”

“What was his name?”

Flint’s smile was bleak and pained and he almost regretted asking.

“Jamie,” he said.

“Short for James. You shared the same name?”

“Yes. It hardly mattered, most everyone called me by my surname. You must know that I don’t tell this story to just anyone. Thomas and Miranda know, but no one else. Do you understand me?”

Charles met his gaze and weighed what he saw there, “I believe I do.”

“Good. So, my proposal.”

“I’m in, of course, I am. I’ll take the Walrus, Jack can captain the Ranger. And before you ask, I agree to the rest as well. I can think of no one better suited for defending Nassau. Expect, maybe, Blackbeard. But I wouldn’t trust him to put our collective interests above his own.”

Flint looked like he was considering saying more, but it passed. He rose and offered his hand to Charles, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “I still want to captain the Man of War back to Nassau,” he said.

Flint laughed, the shadows that had been lingering in his expression falling away.

“Of course,” he said.

Charles tipped his head, letting his mouth curl into an amused smile.

“I expect you want the honor of telling Jack of his impending captain-hood,” Flint said.

“You expect rightly. Though I would bet a portion of my gold that he’s guessed it’s coming, still I’ll enjoy dragging out telling him. I have to find my entertainment where I can.”

Flint chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. “I’m sure,” he said, “try not to torture him to the point that he comes pestering me.” And he wandered off, the shroud of Captain Flint resettling on his shoulders with each step.

He watched with some amusement as the crew picked up their pace and made more of an effort to appear busy as Flint drew closer. For his own part, he took his time making his way over, just to antagonize Jack.

* * *

The turn of the doorknob jarred her awake, the small squeak enough to get her blood flowing. Instantly, her muscles were tense, poised to move. Beside her, Eleanor shifted and woke a breath slower. “Hello?” said Miranda’s voice. Max was thankful she’d taken over Noonan’s old suite and that there was a small sitting room to slow visitors down. She turned to Eleanor.

“You didn’t lock up when you arrived last night?”

“I was a bit distracted,” Eleanor hissed, struggling out from under the blankets and lunging for yesterday’s clothes. If she were hoping to be presentable, she was out of luck, as Miranda pushed open the bedroom door after a brief tap of her knuckles.

“There you are. I’m amazed you managed to sleep through the noise outside.” She said with a brisk nod towards their windows. They were shuttered and barred but as she reclined there, noise still filtered through. Considering the doorknob woke her — it was amazing that hadn’t. Max pulled her blanket higher, feeling a bit sheepish.

“What’s happening? I’m afraid you have us at disadvantage,” she said.

“Yes, I had figured that out.” Miranda’s gaze surveyed the mess of a room, slid over Eleanor who was still tugging her clothes on, and landed on Max who refused to give up what remained of her dignity and scramble for her own clothes. “I apologize for waking you, but the news I have is something I felt you would want to know sooner than later.”

She perched on the armchair, her hands folded in her lap, as poised as she would be if she’d found them perfectly presentable and sharing tea.

Eleanor made a noise that was close to a growl. She was beginning to pick up Flint’s mannerisms and Max found it unnerving. “You may want to sit down,” Miranda said, undaunted. But Eleanor crossed her arms over her chest and remained standing.

“Suit yourself. Three ships have been spotted approaching the island. They’re too far out to definitively identify them, but one is bigger than the other two by a fair bit,” she said, reaching into her blouse and tugging out a watch. Max recognized it as Thomas’ — it appeared that Miranda had lengthened the chain was wearing it as a necklace. She cradled it between her hands, her expression softening. Max was still stuck on the fact that they were discussing business, while she was completely naked in bed, and only she and Eleanor seemed bothered by it. Miranda was carrying on like this was an everyday occurrence. “Captain Hornigold was the one to spot them. He thinks the larger ship might be a Spanish Warship.”

“A warship, not a treasure ship,” Max said in surprise.

“Yes, it has everyone quite tense. The situation is becoming volatile, considering the last time Spanish ships came here—"

“Don’t speak of events you weren’t here for,” Eleanor cut in.

“As you wish,” Miranda said easily, into the room that had gone quiet. “I won’t. But, you must know that you’re needed now more than ever. If anyone can keep this powder keg from going off, it’s you two.”

Max kicked off her sheets and strode over to her wardrobe, pulling out clothes. Let Miranda get an eyeful for all she cared, there were too many other things to worry about. She pulled on a slip and then a dress. One of her more practical ones. She tossed a hair scarf to Eleanor who caught it and used it to tie her blonde curls out of her face. They couldn’t afford to be absent for much longer, they needed to be seen, calm and in control.

“You are absurdly calm,” Eleanor was saying, and Max could hear it, the tremor in her voice that always made an appearance when she was reminded of the Spanish raids that had taken her mother from her. “You weren’t here, but you must know what this may mean. And we’re without Flint and James. The other captains are more liable to flee than fight without those two to convince them.”

“Captain Hornigold is —“

“Is old and set in his ways and still convinced he and his men will one day be welcomed back to civilization with open arms. If it comes down to it, odds are he sides against us. And you know it.” Max said. “There’s a reason he hides up in the fort rather than go hunting. Flint knows it, he must have discussed which captains could be relied on with you.”

“Yes, he has,” Miranda said.

Eleanor snorted inelegantly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Miranda?” Max prompted, her tone kinder.

Miranda nodded thoughtfully, “remember that bad feeling I spoke to you about, the other day? Well, I woke up this morning and it was gone.”

“I remember,” Max said, ignoring the confused look Eleanor shot her and the muttered French that followed. Thankfully, she knew Miranda was better versed in Spanish and wasn’t likely to pick up on what her lover was so colorfully saying.

Miranda nodded again. “I don’t know how they managed to get a Spanish ship, but I think the two smaller ships are the Ranger and the Walrus.” She got up and walked to the window, unbarring it and opening the shutters. The pocket watch dangled from her neck, glinting in the sunlight. Max exchanged a look with Eleanor.

“I’m sure it’s them,” Miranda said, “I intend to go down to the shore and await them there. But I thought you would appreciate being filled in before a riot erupts in the streets. You really should go do something about that soon.”

“What if you’re wrong,” Eleanor said, her surliness replaced with concern, “by the time you realize it may be too late to retreat back to town.”

“I’m not,” Miranda said, “but if I am, James has boltholes all over this island. I can think of two I could reach in time to be hidden before an enemy longboat reaches the beach.”

“Of course he does,” Eleanor muttered.

Miranda turned back to face them, examining them, “if you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll be going. You should find settling the men a task for only an hour or so more. By then, we should be able to identify the ships and allay their fears.” She rubbed at her eyes. She looked as tired as she sounded, with lines around her eyes that had increased in the few days since Max had seen her last. She wondered when Miranda had last slept, and slept well. Probably, it hadn’t happened since her men sailed away.

“Let me send a man with you,” Eleanor said, “who knows what nonsense will be happening at the beach.”

Miranda was still studying them both, her exhaustion left her no less astute. “Alright. Can you spare O’Malley? He’s pleasant enough company.”

“Pleasant to talk to,” Max wondered aloud, “or pleasant to look at?”

Miranda smiled knowingly and Eleanor rolled her eyes at them.

* * *

It took them ten, maybe twelve minutes, to decide to send the majority of the men to the shore. They kept a few back, mostly volunteers, to guard the ships and the gold. The men needed to blow off steam, and spend the small amount of their shares they’d been given upfront. Odds were, most would spend it all in a night and be back the next day, eager to move the loot ashore so the formal divvying could begin. It gave them time to decide where to keep the gold. Charles was all for seizing the fort then and there, but between them, Thomas and Jack had managed to talk him down. James had stayed silent on the subject, and Thomas knew it was because he agreed with Charles on the necessity of the act, if not the timing of it.

They had a half-hour, maybe a full-hour, before he and James got in a longboat and traveled to shore. Thomas stood on the uppermost deck, leaning against the railing, and sipped from the flask he’d swiped from James' cabin. He was enjoying the view, and if he was also scanning what he could see of the beach for a particular figure, well, only he would know.

“There you are.”

“I wanted to stay out of the way.”

James came and stood beside him, accepting the flask when he offered it to him. He took a pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was wondering,” Thomas said, “do you think Silver will stick around?”

“I’d give it even odds. For all his protesting, he’s fallen in with the crew, made a place for himself among them. It’s not an easy thing to walk away from. The more they rely on him, the more he’ll need them.”

“You almost sound jealous.”

“I never needed their acceptance, just their obedience.”

“You have their loyalty too. Or at least, you have the loyalty of the ones who matter most.”

James offered him a quirk of a smile, taking a second drink. His gaze was scanning the shore as thoroughly as Thomas’ had been moments before. He knew without asking that they were looking for the same thing. “She’s probably sheltering in the shade,” he said and James’ smile turned puzzled.

“Miranda. We were probably sighted hours ago,” he said and understanding dawned on James, “she would have retreated to the shade to keep cool.”

“She does so hate getting sunburnt,” James said and Thomas laughed and stole the flask back.

“The same as we hate listening to her groan about it,” he said, tilting the flask and examining the coat of arms painted on the side. He almost didn’t recognize it, he’d only seen it once or twice. “It’s better for all of us that she avoids getting burnt, in the first place. James. Why do you still have a flask from Hennessy? That is his family crest, I’m sure of it.”

James grimaced, as he usually did when his former mentor was brought up, and they fell into silence. He tilted the flask back and forth, unsure whether he wanted to drink from it any more.

“No matter the terms we ended things on,” James said, after a long moment, “he was still. . . integral in making me who I am today. He gave that to me the day I made lieutenant. I’ve come close to pitching it into the ocean more times than I can count.”

“But you’ve never gone through with it.”

“No,” he said, and he accepted it when Thomas passed it back without drinking, “it’s a reminder. In the same way, that watch of yours is for you.”

“Beg pardon?”

“It is similar. Your father gave you that watch and you’ve held on to it all these years. Leaving it with Miranda was the first time I’ve seen you willingly separate from it.”

Thomas looked at him incredulously. “That’s different. That watch has been in my family for generations. Compared to all the other Hamilton’s who’ve held it, my father is only a drop in the bucket.”

“It’s a reminder, not of your father, but of who Thomas Hamilton was.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“That’s how I feel about the flask. Now can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

“You can’t avoid every uncomfortable conversation.”

“I sure can try,” James said and Thomas threw his head back and laughed. James grinned and tucked the flask away. Any of the crew watching them would be dumbstruck at how content their feared captain looked in that moment, how normal and happy he looked. “Well,” Thomas said, “as long as we both admit we’re sentimental idiots, I suppose we can drop the subject.”

“Mm,” James said, “James Flint, sentimental idiot doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Thomas Barlow, sentimental idiot.” Thomas was too distracted by the way James' mouth curled around his name to rise to the bait. He said his name with the same tenderness, the same emphasis he used when he called him sweetheart or darling. Had he always pronounced his name like that and Thomas had never noticed? Did he do the same when he said James’ or Miranda’s names? He hoped he did. He hoped they noticed so that they could feel the same warm glow he was experiencing.

When he didn’t respond, James glanced at him, but he must have seen some of what Thomas was thinking on his face because he didn’t comment.

For a while longer, they stood there, drinking in the view of their home. They’d made it. There had been a moment or two, on the Walrus when they faced the Man of War, on the beach when they faced the Urca crew, where he’d thought they may not make it. Those moments seemed a distant memory now.

James leaned closer, and Thomas startled. He didn’t flinch away, but it was a close thing. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, so aware of their open position, he hadn’t expected James to lean in. Like that. With the clear intent to kiss him. James watched him, and his lips brushed his when Thomas smiled. A hand found his cheek and he nuzzled into it. Their kisses were chaste and he decided they could do better, and he seized James’ mouth with his and kissed him properly. James’ arm slid around his waist - and he could hear his stuttered inhale.

Thomas pulled back and studied his lover, “what are the chances,” he said, “of getting us on a longboat earlier?”

“They’d grumble a bit, but I think it could be arranged. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, you know. You, Miranda, and me, naked in our bed at home. Behind locked doors and not to be disturbed for hours. Maybe days.”

James’ eyes darkened. “Naked, you said?”

“Mm. If I have my way, there won’t be a stitch of clothing on any of us.”

James was nodding, and the smile on his face was so gorgeous Thomas couldn’t resist leaning in and kissing it again. “Well,” James said, “how could I resist a proposition like that?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I won’t. I’ll go arrange getting on a boat with Hal. In a moment.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

James grinned, and Thomas was helpless against the smile that curled his lips too. He pressed his mouth against Thomas’ for one last kiss before straightening up. Thomas fixed the collar of James’ jacket, patting him on the chest when it was situated. With a nod of thanks, James turned and headed down to the lower deck. Thomas would join him in a moment and they would climb into one of the waiting longboats. They would row to shore and find Miranda. And they would hole up in their home for as long as they could manage, relishing their reunion. Sooner or later, their retreat would have to end. Reality would reimpose itself, they would have duties and responsibilities to see to.

But not all of it would end. James would be home more often and gone less. They would sleep in the same bed more nights than not. Thomas knew that, trusted that, and the knowledge comforted him, strengthened his spine. He headed down to rejoin James, his hands tucked in his pockets, the smile on his face so wide his cheeks ached.

* * *

Against all odds, against all the common knowledge that said their ambitions were doomed to failure, the universe had somehow decided to give him this. The gift of Miranda curled in his arms, of Thomas pressed against his back, both sleeping peacefully. Somehow, he’d managed to come out on top. He’d found the Urca, retrieved her gold and gotten it safely home. Most of all, he’d done it without losing his lovers or being lost himself. Their victory hadn’t really sunk in for him until they’d crossed the threshold into their bedroom the night before. Until both Miranda and Thomas had turned to look at him, and the way they’d looked at him with such affection had knocked with wind out of him. It had almost knocked him to his knees. He’d actually done it, they actually got to _have this_.

He slid carefully out from between them, brushing a kiss across their respective brows because he could not help himself, and padded silently out of the bedroom. His feet led him to the set of French doors that led to the balcony, and he stood there, looking out. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the island in soft streaks of pink and gold. There was still so much to do, but the hardest part was over. All that was left was details and preparing for the day foreign ships dared to approach their island. He rested his forehead against the cool glass and just stood there. He was surprised to note he was shaking slightly. Just a minute tremor in his hands and his shoulders. It was the cold, the logical part of him said. The somewhat emotionally-intelligent part of him knew that was a lie. And then, two set of arms were winding around him.

“Darling?” Miranda whispered, her voice gentle, and he turned in their arms then, letting them cradle him between them. He leant his forehead against Thomas’ and Miranda tucked herself under their chins. He rested there, let them hold him up.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” James said. Thomas kissed the side of his face, his brow, and Miranda tugged him closer to them, her hands warm and grounding against his back.

“I always thought I’d have to pay some terrible price to get here, I always have, before,” James said after a moment. His voice was so quiet, he thought they may not have heard him, but their arms tightened around him and he knew they had.

“Maybe,” Thomas murmured, “the world owed you this, then.”

Thomas slipped his hand to the back of James’ head and James returned his kiss with the same slow tenderness it was offered with. He sank into it, tasting the lingering bitterness of the liquor they’d shared before bed. Miranda made a small noise and they separated, and James turned to share the taste with her. In the years they’d had together, they’d had some fairly spectacular sex. But last night’s had been different. James thought it might have been the best sex he’d ever had. It hadn’t been anything exciting, athletic or complicated. Instead, it had been quiet.

They had smothered sound with mouths and hands and generally acted like there was someone nearby to overhear when in fact they’d had the building to themselves. It had been reverent and filled with warmth and it was a night he’d never forget.

“You’re both so beautiful,” Thomas whispered, and James pulled back, panting as Miranda kissed Thomas silent. There was still a hand resting on the back of his neck, and Thomas’ fingers dug in, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck,” James husked, and they were pressed so close he felt the answering shivers that ran through his lovers. He collapsed back against the doors, tugging them with him. For a moment, they rested there, breathing heavy and grinning like children.

“Bed,” Miranda managed finally, “let’s go back to bed. We have hours to go before we have to do anything.”

“I like that plan,” Thomas said.

“As long as we stay naked,” James said, and he relished in Thomas’ laugh and Miranda’s knowing smirk. They would iron out the details of what a new and improved Nassau looked like later. They would have a surprising amount of help too, enough that he rather thought it would be harder to fail than to succeed. After all, in a universe where the three of them got to live out their days together, happy and secure and free, anything was possible.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> This is the end of the main plot for this series. I'm playing with the idea of writing some one-shots to address some of the side plots that didn't make the final cut for this story (like how Eleanor/Max, Max/Anne, etc. eventually end up or maybe a sort of epilogue for James/Thomas/Miranda) but I haven't decided for sure. I'd love to hear if anyone would be interested!


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